


The Halls with the Sunrise

by Sanguis



Series: The Bells Are Ringing Out [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Harry, F/M, GFY, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Queer Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 74,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: Sixth year looms ahead, and the wizarding world finally accepts that Voldemort has returned. A lot can happen over the course of a single summer, but Harry endeavors to enjoy himself and learn as much as he can.





	1. The Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I return! Happy new year.
> 
> I'm posting this far earlier than I want to, to assure you all that I haven't abandoned this. I will, however not be posting chapters as regularly as I did with the previous installment. This is because I haven't finished writing and plotting everything, and since I'm currently facing financial troubles, I can't dedicate as much time as I want to writing. There was also a week of flu, followed by a depressive episode that completely halted any progress. Sigh.
> 
> Roughly 75% of this installment is done. The third installment is currently a vague shape I hope to start tinkering at once this part is done. Gods, what did I get myself into O.o
> 
> ETA: The entire installment is complete and regular posting shall continue henceforth.

A week into the summer holidays, Harry sits outside in the sunny, flowery garden of his new home, pencil in one hand, icy popsicle in the other. The pencil is so that he can take notes for Herbology; the popsicle is so that Winky doesn’t get any ideas about him needing to be cooled off with a splash of water in his face.

This is, by far, the best summer he’s ever had, excluding the time with the Quidditch championship. For one, he’s being taught magic. For two, he’s  _ allowed _ to do magic all on his own, and no letters from the Ministry come in expelling him.

He hears footsteps behind him and scribbles a bit faster. “I’m not done yet!”

“Well, you still have five minutes,” says Salah.

With a hum, Harry finishes his last sketch and hands it to Salah without so much as a glance. He has to carefully water his potted Moly, which he has taken outside with him to have a bit of sun. It’s barely sprouted, and Harry can’t wait to see whether the flowers will be white or light blue.

“You know, when I gave you this project,” Salah says, amusement clear in her voice, “I did not imagine you would become so...attached.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s a cute little bean.” He puts it back on the table on the porch. “I’ve never really had to take care of anything except Hedwig.” He squints up to the blue sky. He’d let Hedwig roam free; the land around them is vast, and he likes how happy it makes Hedwig to be able to go anywhere she pleases.

Salah hums. Her attention is now on his sketches and notes; Harry has to spend the summer caring for and tracking the growth of the plant. It seems benign, but he’s spent the last week reading up on the Moly; done right, it can grow into a flower potent enough to protect against dark enchantments.

“Well done,” says Salah. She hands him back his parchment. “Your handwriting has improved, too. Go and get ready, we leave at two.”

With a nod and a grin, Harry goes upstairs, where the bedrooms are. He has his own now, and at first it had seemed too large to house just one person, especially with the added personal bathroom. The bed is lavish and rather too large—soft, too; Harry had had difficulty sleeping the first few days because he’d feared he would sink through the mattress. It hasn’t happened yet.

More extravagantly, he has  _ a walk-in closet, _ which he can’t possibly ever fill.

He doesn’t have to cook or clean. He does try to keep things as tidy as possible, but his books always find impossible places to perch from and he has his notes flying halfway across from where he’s written them. 

The approved sketch goes into a binder aptly covered with a painting of a vine. He has one for each subject, even Mind Magic, which is an even black. Harry had picked them out on Tuesday, when they had gone out to the town a few miles down the road.

Today they’re to go into London—the non-magical part of it. Salah seems keen on the shops there, and Godric had laughed sinisterly when she had asked Harry if he wanted to come along. They’re all going now.

After a quick shower—he smells like grass, Harry emerges from his room in his least shabby-looking clothes. It’s a bit of a problem, living with hosts who can probably buy an island three times over; they’re always well-dressed, and they look  _ expensive. _

Godric meets him on the way down. “Harry! Slow down, lad; my joints creak.”

“It means you’re fresh and crunchy,” Harry says, not slowing down at all. Salah’s probably already waiting outside; the absolute madwoman knows how to dress quickly and efficiently, as if she plans all of her outfits three weeks in advance.

Which Godric has whispered to Harry she does.

“Oh haha; wait until you hit your early twenties.”

The resident Marchioness does indeed wait for them outside. Her hair gleams with light brown highlights in the sun. Here, in Gryposcire, she is Countess to Godric’s Count. They had explained the details to Harry on their second day here—Monday. He hadn’t understood half of it, but apparently with the land directly around the mansion being invisible, and the entire county apparently being unplottable, the titles only matter so long as they remain here.

Harry likes it here. The townsfolk are nice; they love Godric to pieces, and possibly worship Salah when she’s not looking.

Salah gives them both a personal water bottle. Harry’s has an antlered white deer on it, which he thinks is cute. “It’s a hot day, etcetera,” Salah says.

They walk into town at the calm pace Salah sets. Godric is absolutely forbidden from walking ahead, as his long legs make it impossible to keep up. On Tuesday he had lifted Salah over his shoulder and run down the path, leaving Harry to laugh himself into stitches as Salah had threatened to cut Godric into pieces.

A cool breeze keeps him from overheating. Salah, dressed in a long-sleeved silk shirt—her favourite kind, apparently, seems not to suffer at all from the heat. They reach the first houses at a quarter past, and the chatter of the town square comes to them five minutes later.

Godric had left his car here for repairs before he had gone on to work at Hogwarts. Salah owns a motorbike, but that’s not useful with three people.

“I’d still prefer to go to London with my bike,” she tells Harry.

“Thought you can’t?” He says in return. She hadn’t disclosed  _ why _ , but Harry has an inkling that it has to do with her being so ill the last few weeks.

“It’s not a matter of cannot,” Godric says. “It’s a matter of should not.”

Salah shrugs. “That.”

A  stream of children passes by, lead by adults. The children are all tiny; they barely reach Harry’s knees, and none of them seems any older than two. He’s surprised they walk without falling over. One of their caretakers has ‘Gryposcire Daycare’ written on both front and back of her vest.

Thankfully, the repair shop is on this side of town. Harry has nothing against walking, but it’s a hot day.

“Hey, Robert!” Godric calls.

A short, corpulent man comes out of the garage ahead, arms stretched out. “Godric, my boy!” His voice booms, and several people turn to look. It’s not like Godric isn’t recognisable; he’s the tallest man about, and the one with the reddest hair.

Harry is also sure Godric hasn’t been a ‘boy’ in a long, long time.

“And the Countess, what a treat,” says Robert. He kisses Salah’s hand.

“Flatterer.” Salah laughs.

“Only for you, comtesse,” says Robert. He winks.

“Stop flirting with my wife, old bat.” Godric turns Robert by the shoulders, though he, too, laughs. “Show me my car.”

As Robert rattles off all the changes and fixes, Harry looks about. It’s a simple Muggle— _ non-magical _ , he corrects, with a glance at Salah, repair shop, sans the pictures of women in bikinis that Harry had seen sometimes. Some employees walk about with purpose, others work on cars. The shop is far larger on the inside than it seems on the outside, which boggles his mind until he sees a tall, older lady with a pale wand in her hand, lifting a wheel in place.

That’s the thing that catches Harry’s breath every time—Gryposcire’s seamless integration of magical and non-magical elements, including its population. Nobody bats an eyelash at a witch in an auto repair shop, nobody screams ‘ _freak!_ ’ and runs away, screeching.

She notices Harry’s stare. With the wheel neatly in place, she smiles at him. “You must be the famous Harry.”

_ Famous. _ Harry blinks at her; the only thing he’s famous for to anyone magical is being The Boy Who Lived, and he hasn’t fancied being that since the day he had found out about it at the ripe young age of eleven.

“Er,” he says. “Maybe?”

She laughs. “Don’t be shy, now. I’m Edita.” She tucks her wand away. “See, we haven’t had someone come in from out of Gryposcire since I married a Scottish lass.” Suddenly, he’s looking at a moving picture of a young Edita, arm in arm with a plump, freckled brunette. “That’s my wife, Beitris.”

They look rather pretty together, smiling at the camera and waving. Edita beams at Harry when he says this.

“Harry!” Salah calls from across the shop.

“Go on, now,” says Edita. “We shan’t keep the Countess waiting.”

Across the shop, Godric proudly introduces Harry to a beige convertible Pontiac with dark red seats. From 1966. It’s so posh Harry can’t actually believe he is looking at it, let alone that he’ll get to sit in it for a ride to London.

Half-dizzy, he says, “I’m starting to see why Malfoy was such a dandy.”

“Was?” says Salah, “ _ Was? _ How dare you?”

Harry takes a page from her book. Grinning, “Calmly.”

So they set out to London, after Godric thanks Robert profusely. Harry only climbs in when everyone has assured him this car  _ doesn’t _ fly, which is a tale he then has to recount to a very scandalised Godric and a rather amused Salah.

“Of course the car became sentient,” Salah says after a fit of laughter. “Gryffindors, I swear.”

“I had nothing to do with this!” Godric shouts.

They drive out of Gryposcire sometime around three o’clock by Harry’s reckoning—not that he notices immediately; nothing about the landscape changes. It’s mostly the sudden influx of cars, and then all the signs pointing at all the directions they can take that tip him off.

London’s apparently three quarters of an hour away, not that Harry truly believes that, because wherever Gryposcire is, it’s in the far north, and London is to the very south-east, so unless Godric can bend the horizontal and the vertical…

“We are  _ not _ parking in London proper, Godric,” Salah warns.

“Of course not,” says Godric. “It’d be like  _ asking _ for someone to vandalise it.”

In fact, they park just on the outskirts of London proper, with Salah looking like she might turn Godric’s ear. Harry, entirely prepared and pumped for another walk, is entirely  _ un _ prepared for a first stint with Apparition.

He prefers a portkey, actually.

Disillusioned as they are, nobody notices a sudden addition of three bodies to the crowd. It’s a sunny day in London, which means it’s a  _ busy _ day in London, especially at cafés and restaurants with outdoor seating.

Their first stop is a barbershop. Salah doesn’t agree with the aromas that greet them, so she hides in a little café across the street. This leaves Harry under Godric’s gleeful supervision.

Now to be fair, Harry has cared very little about his hair since Aunt Petunia has taken scissors to it and it had grown back anyway. The barber takes one offended look at Harry and decides to shoo all his assistants towards his other patrons, because, “This is a project I must take on myself.”

Whilst Godric has his split ends trimmed, Harry is treated to an entire lesson on hair care. More than a trim, the mass of his thick curls is shaved off; the top is left long, with a neat line between that and the tapered cut below. He can tie it up into a bun, if he feels like it. He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore.

He leaves with an armful of hair products, which Godric is kind enough to transfigure a linen bag for, out of a plastic bag. “I don’t know what to do with any of this,” he admits to Godric.

“Salah will inform you, if you ask nicely.”

In fact, she seems rather pleased with his look. “Look at you! A new boy.”

Soon after, he exchanges his feeble old glasses for thick-rimmed square ones—black, of course, because he’s enough of a nutter to the world without adding Luna-like turquoise glasses into the mix.

So stunned is he by the change of appearance that he doesn’t even notice when Salah drags him into a clothing store. He does notice when she sends him off to try out the many blouses, shirts, and two jeans she’s piled on his arm.

“How did you even know my size?” he calls from inside the changing room. Everything fits rather well, and all the things with green on them bring out his eyes.

“I’m efficient,” she calls back.

He actually likes everything she’s brought him, especially the hoodie with a deer on the back; it rather matches his bottle of water. He even gets a burgundy pair of jeans of his own accord, and thinks it’s all rather well and done.

Of course, he’s wrong. They step into a tailor’s boutique, and Harry’s subjected to a rather brutal fitting. Nothing can possibly need this many pins.

Salah speaks to the woman in Italian, so of course Harry doesn’t understand any of it. An assistant helps him just fine in English, so Harry can stand by horrified when Godric sits there and orders four sets of suits in the colours black, navy, beige, and light grey. This is  _ too much. _

“Nonsense,” says Godric. “I’ve seen the extent of your wardrobe. Every man needs a suit, and in my house, you have four.”

They’re all to be delivered at the Griffon’s Door manor, even Salah’s new dress, so Harry schedules his private heart attack for later.

At precisely five o’clock—how time dost fly, Harry finds himself staring at that ugly mannequin and her nylon outfit. “We’re here to see Sirius Black,” Salah announces.

Stricken, Harry doesn’t know what to say the entire way up to the Spell Damage ward. It’s not that he’s forgotten Sirius, not at all; the red tape around Sirius, his trial, Wormtail’s hearing—it goes on forever. He’s half-surprised there aren’t any Aurors guarding the door, or even the bed.

It’s just Remus.

“Harry,” he says. He looks and sounds tired, and Harry wants to jokingly suggest he spend a day shopping with Salah. He doesn’t have the heart for it. He hugs Remus instead; it’s good for the both of them.

Godric is studiously reading Sirius’ chart. Salah tugs his arm down so she can read along.

“I just,” says Remus. “I wanted to see him before I—Dumbledore is sending me to gather intel on werewolves in the area.”

“Is that so?” Salah’s eyes regard Remus with such intensity, the man steps back to meet the nightstand. She bypasses Harry, hooks her arm with Remus’ and swiftly takes him on a walk around St. Mungo’s.

“She’s like that,” Godric says at Harry’s flabbergasted look. A moment later, he’s wandered off in the direction of the Longbottoms, granting Harry the privacy he hadn’t known how to ask for.

Sirius looks like he’s sleeping. Something glimmers against his skin, but all Harry can make out from his chart is that the Healers have put Sirius into stasis.  _ Pending review _ , he sees in red letters, whatever that means. It had been one little curse, but nothing’s that simple in the wizarding world, is it?

“Hey Padfoot,” Harry blurts out. “You probably can’t hear me. You wouldn’t even recognise me, I think. Remus probably sniffed me out.” He stops there for a moment to stare at Sirius’ pallid face, the limp fall of his dark hair against the pillows. Sirius’ palm feels cold, and none of this would have happened if—

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m sorry.

Through his tears, he tells Sirius about Gryposcire, about how it means Griffon’s Shire, about the little town that stands like a bastion to a unified community of people. He talks about meeting Edita, that she has a wife named Beitris and that they look so very happy, just like his parents—

—And maybe if he’d not been born, so fitting to a prophecy, James and Lily Potter wouldn’t have had to die.

“Hey now,” comes Godric’s soft voice. He sits next to Harry and hugs him close. Harry can’t let go of Sirius’ hand. “There’s a good lad. Nothing about this is your fault, yeah?  _ Nothing. _ Your parents had you because they loved each other very much, and they loved  _ you _ even more. Tom Riddle made his choice, and he will pay for it. But none of this, not even your godfather’s condition, is your fault.”

He lets Harry sob against his shoulder, probably ruining a good shirt in the process, not that he complains, not even when Harry apologises. Godric cracks a tiny smile and pushes a handkerchief into Harry’s fists.

He says, “This shoulder here is always prepared to be cried on,” which makes Harry bawl with renewed vigour, because no one can be  _ this _ kind and mean it.

At the end, tears wiped away, Harry has a headache. Godric sits and watches him drink some tea he transfigures from water because apparently tea from the canteen might as well be poison. He says it with such disgust it makes Harry laugh.

Salah waits for them outside. She dons a sleek coat now, because the sun has made a disappearing act and the clouds an appearing one. She says nothing of Harry’s puffy red eyes and announces instead that she’s hungry.

“Where’s Remus?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I gave him keys to a nice little penthouse,” Salah says nonchalantly. “And some change for clothes, maybe some food. He was indecisive.”

Godric looks at her sideways. “Should I expect more strays in the near future?”

Salah ignores him entirely in favour of pointing out a fish and chips tent, because apparently it’s a fish and chips kind of day. Harry is absolutely famished and will take anything that restores his energy, because apparently crying saps the life out of a person. At least his heart feels better.


	2. The Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Some things you lose,” says Godric, “others you find. Family can be like that, sometimes. You just have to go looking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy I'm still alive. Day job has been keeping me incredibly busy and tired. Now I finally have a week or two to myself, so I may dabble into more writing. Fair warning, though: March is going to be a meteorically busy month for me from the looks of things so I suspect it's going to take incredibly long for me to finish up this installment. But in the mean time, here's a chapter :)

On Tuesday, Harry receives a letter from Ron. If earlier he hadn’t received one from Hermione, confirming her whereabouts to be Bulgaria, Harry would also be upset and lightly paranoid at her disappearance. As is, he’d promised Hermione in their first summer correspondence that he wouldn’t tell Ron she’s now officially dating Viktor Krum.

So now it falls on Harry to assure Ron that, yes, he’s fine, no, his hosts haven’t murdered him, and no, he doesn’t know where Hermione is but her latest letter proves she is perfectly safe and healthy.

_ Cheers, _

_ Harry. _

The cat will be out of the bag at some point, not that Harry intends to let it out.

Apparently Fred and George have opened a shop in Wizarding London and it’s an enormous hit. They send him a box the day after Harry sends Hedwig away with the letter to Ron. As an investor, Harry apparently gets all the free goodies his heart desires,  _ and here’s a first taste. _

“Wonderful,” Godric says when Harry shows him. “Very clever use of magic. I heard from Severus they had an O for their N.E.W.T.-level potions.”

“He was rather displeased about it, outwardly,” Salah says as she peers into the box. It says  _ Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes _ on the sides in bright orange. “But, really, he was proud.”

Snape, proud, and Weasleys in the same thought concept is a bit too strange for Harry, so he picks up a trick wand. At a wave, it becomes a bright red kettle.

Godric slaps Salah’s hand away from the candy. “We have crackers in our cupboards.”

Salah rolls her eyes and goes for the Tiny Twister instead, which is a tall glass jar with a tornado captured in it. “I’m keeping this,” she says, eying Godric. “I can’t eat it, so you can’t send me to the cupboards.”

He throws his hands up and lets her be. She doesn’t actually go for any of the candy whilst the box is still there, though she does glance at them until Winky comes in and hides all the candy on the tallest shelves. Harry, who has about an inch on Salah, is absolutely offended.

“They’re mine, you know,” he tells Winky. She’s climbed unto the counter to reach the shelves. “I wouldn’t have let Salah eat them.”

“Mistress is crafty,” is all Winky says.

Salah merely smiles into her tea.

An hour later, Godric is summoned to Grimmauld Place. Dobby comes to get him, because he’s the only other Elf they can trust  _ not _ to tell Dumbledore exactly where they are. This suits Harry just fine; he doesn’t want to talk to the headmaster anytime soon, not after hearing of the prophecy.

Which he has, in fact, told Salah and Godric about, only to have it revealed that they had known parts of it, but not the whole. They had been sure Harry had known about it. Salah had had to stare blankly at a wall whilst Godric had covered his face with his hands, making several frustrated noises.

Godric kisses Salah hastily, ruffles Harry’s hair, and then Apparates out. Disgruntled, Salah throws her third helping of tea in the sink. Harry has only just finished a letter to Cho, the last letter for now—unless he brings up the courage to write to Malfoy, but he goes red at the mere thought of it.  _ Damnit. _

“Fancy a stroll?” Salah asks. “We haven’t shown you all of Gryposcire town.”

Harry perks up. He’d been meaning to scout the town as soon as he’d sent all his letters, and this is an easy out from thinking about his... _ crush _ on Malfoy. Salah waits for him to gather his things, send Hedwig flying, and fill his water bottle.

This time, when they reach the town outskirts, Salah goes to the right rather than through. They follow a little stream that does a sort of half-circle around the town. Halfway along, Salah turns left into a narrow street.

To Harry, this part of town doesn’t look different so much as  _ older _ . The houses and shops seem to spring up uncoordinated, as if they had grown naturally from the ground up. That has its own thing, he supposes; it certainly appeals to him more than Surrey ever did, with its neat lines and copied aesthetic.

The stream makes a little knick around a large ash tree. Salah says, “Here is where the town started.”

The tree has pavement circling it, like a sun spiralling outward. Harry doesn’t sense anything magical about it, but he can feel its importance. Some people had left offerings at the roots—plushies, a bag of cookies, cake, coins…

“Young magicians are told to contemplate this tree,” Salah tells him, “to look at it’s steadfastness, how deeply it is rooted, how long it has lasted, and the years it has celebrated. I think it’s rather poetic.”

“It’s a big tree,” Harry remarks.

Her grin is wide and pleased. “Now, I’m going to get some ice cream over there,” she points at a shop behind Harry. “You are going to study this tree for me.” She pats it.

Harry doesn’t even watch her leave. He has to ‘contemplate the great tree’, and, well, it  _ is _ pretty large, the branches stretching up and out as if they want to encompass the entire town, perhaps even the world. Harry plops down on a nearby bench; if he looks to the left, he looks into town and to where Salah stands at the ice cream shop. If he looks to the right, he sees an endless field of green, and two grazing cows.

In between, a tree. Its base is so thick, Harry would have to clone himself ten times to be able to hug all of it. It seems impossible that any storm could uproot it. He’s not certain what he’s supposed to find in that—solace, strength, hope? Is he supposed to offer something to it, like a prayer to some old, half-forgotten God?

“You must be the new Harry,” a small voice says next to him. Harry possibly has a heart attack, but it’s just a little girl with tan skin and the warmest brown eyes. She can’t be older than four, and her jean overalls are covered in dirt and grass.

She says, “It’s Mister Harry, I suppose. You’re old, but not so old.”

“I’m fifteen,” says Harry. “I’ll turn sixteen in a few weeks.”

“I’m four!” says the little girl. “I won’t turn five for years and years and years.”

That doesn’t sound right, but Harry smiles at her. She smiles back, and says, “I was planting flowers with my mam.”

“Nice,” says Harry, “I was...looking at the tree.”

She nods sagely. “I saw.” Then, “Is she your mam?” She points at Salah.

Harry freezes. In the distance, Salah turns away, smiling, and it occurs to him that the reason she had looked so familiar to him that first day at Hogwarts last year is because she looks just like him.  _ Except for her eyes _ , and her smile.

“Adelaide,” someone calls. “Adelaide!”

“Oops,” says the little girl. “Got to go! Good day, Mister Harry!”

As she trots away, gaining speed like only a child can, Salah returns with ice cream in hand. Harry has no idea what’s balancing on his cone, but he discovers it’s vanilla almond with tiny caramelised bits of peanuts. He has no idea what to do with this information, other than have his brain categorise it as ‘frankly delicious’.

He can’t really look at Salah.  _ Is she your mam _ echoes in his head every time he catches a glance of her, and something gnarly but warm sits in a newfound hollow in his chest.

Eventually, she says, “What’s got you so glum? It’s not the tree, is it?”

“A little girl asked me if you were my mum,” he blurts out.

She takes this in with some mirth. “Well, I certainly look old enough. I  _ am _ old enough to have an entire legion of griffons.”

It hurts to laugh, but he does. Salah’s eyes sparkle when she looks at him, and Harry realises that she’s fond of him. It’s a very strange feeling, but it loosens some of the gnarly bits that have lodged in him.

“Is that all that’s bothering you?” she asks. She’s chipping away at her waffle cone now. It’s very entertaining.

It also gives Harry time to mull things over. It’s the ‘mum’ bit that...scares him. He doesn’t remember his own mother except for the pictures Hagrid had gathered for him—her red hair, their shared green eyes, her radiant smile. He’d not even had a proper family until he’d met Ron and Hermione, not until the Weasleys had semi-adopted him into theirs. Even then—

“I’ve never had a mum,” says Harry. Mrs Weasley had come the closest, but he wagers Salah has figured that out already. “I don’t know...what—”

He doesn’t mean to cry. The past week has been fine, really, even great. It overwhelms him now, because Salah and Godric are so  _ nice _ ; they’ve taken him to their  _ home _ , treated him as if he were important, given him clothes and food, have let him cry whenever he’d needed to, not one mocking word to follow it up.

“Oh, Harry,” says Salah. She pulls him against her chest, unheeding of what is probably going to be a massive stain on her blouse. She’d never seemed like the soft, hugging kind of person, and yet.

“You’ve never had the chance to say goodbye, have you?” she murmurs. “You were only a baby.” He sobs against her, tries to convince himself that it isn’t weak and pathetic to grieve for people he’d never had the chance to know.

“I don’t even know where they’re buried,” he says. “If they even got a burial.”

She squeezes him for a second. “We’ll have to remedy that.”

When they walk back, she hooks her arm around his. Somehow, it makes Harry settle, because this summer there are people who care, people who want him there. After the summer before his fourth year, he hadn’t thought anything like that could repeat itself.

Godric greets them on the steps up to the door. He must’ve seen them coming from afar; he stands with his hands in his pockets. Salah greets him with a hug and a heartfelt kiss.

_ Were my parents like that? _ It’s the first time Harry really wonders; his mum and dad had certainly seemed somewhat like that, content to just be around each other. But had they bickered amiably? Had his father ever lifted his mother up and carried her on his shoulder? Had his mother ever fixed his father’s tie and kissed him quickly?

Harry would like to imagine they did all of that.

Godric throws an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Harry laughs. “When was the last time you used wizarding money?”

“1924, I think.”

It’s so impossible, and yet here they are. They go inside and then to the patio, where it’s cool and Winky has prepared them lunch—tuna sandwiches with a good helping of salad. It’s probably the healthiest Harry has ever eaten, and he’s certain Godric and Winky have teamed up to fatten him a bit. Harry doesn’t mind.

“How was the Order meeting?” Salah asks. She lounges lazily in her chair, eats carefully. As long as she doesn’t sick up…

“Strained,” Godric responds. “Moody didn’t want me there, and Molly Weasley glared at me the entire time. Tonks was cute though.” He turns to Harry. “Molly wants to know how you’re doing, and Tonks says ‘Wotcher, Harry’.”

“I’ll send a letter, then.” She probably won’t be pleased with just his letter to Ron, Harry supposes. And it does put off the thought of a letter to Malfoy.

“I assume the meeting was about Remus Lupin?” says Salah.

“Yes,” Godric says. “He’s convinced Dumbledore to put off his mission until they have something to barter with. I wonder who gave him the brilliant idea.” He takes a bit from his sandwich whilst looking directly at his wife. She smiles coyly.

“How annoyed do you think Severus Snape will be when I present him with an improved version of the Wolfsbane Potion?”

“Livid,” says Godric, “and intrigued. But you promised not to—”

“Oh, I won’t,” says Salah. “But Harry is really good at brewing. I’m sure he can find time between the language lessons.”

“What?” Harry straightens his back. “What lessons?” He’s not even started his actual summer homework yet, and he likes putting all his focus into his Moly. It’s adorable.

“It appears Salah has just decided you’re to learn Spanish,” says Godric.   
  
Harry throws his hands up into the air. “Yes!” He has only been badgering her about it since last year. It doesn’t even matter anymore that his summer vacation will be filled with homework and chores; he’s going to love it.   
  
“Yes, well,” Salah says, “it’s appalling that you know only one language—no, that thing you call Latin is not relevant here. But you’ll have a headstart on the baby.”   
  
He can’t have heard that right. Harry lowers his arms, eyes wide. Godric has covered his eyes, his shoulders shaking with laughter in tandem with the small, breathy noises he makes. Harry is possibly having an aneurysm.   
  
“You’re so bad at this,” says Godric. “You’ve gone and broken him.”   
  
She glares at him. “I have done no such thing.”   
  
“What Sal means to say,” Godric says, apparently taking pity on Harry, “is that we’re expecting a baby. Due sometime in December.”

“It could possibly be a tarantula,” says Salah, “but we expect it’s a small human.”

Godric lays his head on the table, shoulders shaking once more. “Oh my  _ God, _ woman.”

The entire time, Harry blinks owlishly at them. It doesn’t make sense—until it does, because Salah has been sick and nauseous, because she had collapsed and Madam Pomfrey had discovered something then because—  

“You’re pregnant?” he blurts out. When Salah nods, he practically launches himself at her, never mind that he nearly topples an entire table.

 

***

Later that evening, Harry labels a leftover binder ‘Spanish’. His first lesson starts tomorrow; Salah has already given him a book on the basics to look through. His potted Moly is back on his windowsill, and he probably should get to that letter for Mrs Weasley. 

He leaves it for tomorrow, since it’ll not be pleasant weather for walks; Godric had looked up to the evening sky and said, “Rainfall. Light, but persistent.” Many benefits come from living with legends.

Now the real question is what to read—the ingredients and instructions to brewing Wolfsbane, or the first chapter to Spanish grammar and spelling. He’s pretty sure that’s what the book’s title means; at least the letters are familiar, though he has no clue what to do with all the accents.  _ They’re important, right? _

A knock at his door. Salah stands on the threshold, already dressed in her pyjamas and a robe thrown over them. Harry had purposefully left the door open; it feels less restrictive that way, like he has the freedom to walk in an out of his own room at any time. He can  _ almost _ hear Mad-Eye Moody shout about security risks, but he’d rather someone come right out and attack him than be locked in.

Salah yawns before she speaks. “Hey, Harry. We’d like to show you something, before we head to bed.”

Curious, Harry slides out of his cross-legged position on the bed. Salah takes his hand and leads him through the house, still a maze to him because of the countless rooms. The corridor goes sharply to the right, and at the end is a door, open. Godric awaits them inside.

It’s a rather large room, more so because it has no furniture, and one wall is made entirely of a half-circular window. Godric stands in the middle, looking at the wall to Harry’s left. Under his bare feet is a detailed painting of—  

“The ash tree,” Harry murmurs. It’s roots start at the window; it’s base runs for the length the room. Branches with leaves crawl up the remaining three walls, and they engulf the entirety of the room.

“Here we are,” says Salah. She places her finger under two leaves; they light up once Harry looks at them.

 

_ Godric Hereweald Oswin Of Griffon’s Door & Salah Alaia Zaahir De La Casa Serpentina _

_ B: 29 Maius 976 | B: 10 Februarius 975 _

_ M: 15 Martius 995 _

 

They’d had three children: Godiva in 998, Amat in 1002, and Idris in 1008. A fourth, smaller leaf perches next to Idris, containing only a question mark.

Once Harry has taken all this in, Salah traces the line from Godiva, married to Eukleides in 1013, through many of her grandchildren, great-grandchildren and so on. Harry sees so many names and branches pass away, it’s a small miracle the tree can keep up with all of them. The line Salah follows is the strongest.

Salah stops briefly at three Peverell brothers: Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus. She drums her fingers against the wall, looking suddenly like all her years had come to haunt her. Before Harry can even properly formulate a question, she’s continued through Iolanthe Peverell, married to Hardwin Potter—  

—Harry holds his breath—

—down to Henry Potter, married to Constantina Fleamont, whose son was then Fleamont Potter, who had wed Euphemia Isidora Rawlins, and they’d already been halfway to their fifties, Harry calculates quickly, when they’d had James Potter, B: 27 Martius 1960.

In contrast, his parents had barely been adults themselves, and when Salah moves away—

 

_ Harry James Potter _

_ B: 31 Iulius 1980 _

 

That’s where the main line stops.

“Some things you lose,” says Godric, “others you find. Family can be like that, sometimes. You just have to go looking.” He and Salah hold each other, with Salah resting her head on his chest.

Harry looks back at the wall. The leaf with his name glows dimly now, but it’s there.

This whole crying thing is getting out of hand.


	3. The Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing alike to the feeling of discovering ones lineage, the history attached to it. This is Griffon's Door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [crawls from under rock] Hi, I'm still alive. Just letting you guys know before I disappear again. Love you all <3 thanks for reading.

Despite the whirlwind of emotions, Harry sleeps well. As Godric had predicted, the day is grey with clouds, though their threat is benign. He writes three letters to Mrs Weasley after breakfast, discards them, writes three more. It just doesn’t ever sounds right—too much room for suspicion, like he’s been forced to write about how wonderful his hosts are.

He gives up after the seventh attempt, clears the parchment. It’s a neat trick Hermione had written about in her last letter, and it certainly saving him parchment right about now.

With the sky still grey, Harry has no reason to want to be outside. He doesn’t  _ need _ to be outside; here, he’s not cast out, not too much, not a freak. He has...a family.

It’s with that thought he finds himself walking to the tree-room. Neither Salah nor Godric had told him the name for that, if it even has a name, but Harry can’t think of anything more creative.

He finds his name almost blindly. It doesn’t glow now as when Salah had touched it, but it does make Harry feel warm and fuzzy. Something’s fallen in place, though if anyone were to ask him what, he wouldn’t know where to begin with formulating it.

“Here I am,” he says. 

It’s like the mirror of Erised, when he had seen not only his parents, but their parents, and all those that had come before. He’s not just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—no, here is something bigger, something he belongs to, people who belong with and to him.

Of course, this means he wants to trace all of them—the branches, the entire expanse of sprawling leaves. Godric had had a sister by the name of Elfryda Leofflæd Godiva, whose descendants branch out on the right and eventually become the Prewetts, who through Molly Weasley-Prewett are connected to the Weasleys. Harry, who had absentmindedly brought the parchment along, makes note of this. For Ron.

Salah had had an elder sister, Jinan Katalin, whose descendents die out quickly in the 15th century. Their younger brother, Eder Gaizka, had lived to be ninety. His line lasts almost as long as Salah’s; they even cross to spawn the Peverell brothers, which is weird and fascinating at once. Cadmus is forefather to what becomes the Gaunts, and from there—  

 

_ Tom Marvolo Riddle _

_ B: 31 December 1926 _

 

Merope Gaunt is his mother, and Tom Riddle Sr. his father. Harry doesn’t even know what to do with this information; it confirms what Salah had already told him: Voldemort is indeed not a direct descendent of “Salazar Slytherin”. That’s really going to sting the man.

“Harry.” Godric knocks lightly on the door. Harry blinks; it’s not even like this is his room. Godric probably has more right to be in here than Harry does. Godric says, “It’ll be dry for a bit. Come outside with me?”

With a last glance at Tom, Harry follows Godric out and down to the back garden. It’s a bit breezy outside, but before Harry can even voice a complaint, Godric has cast a warming charm on both of them.

“Sal’s on bed rest today,” Godric says. “It’s never good when she looks paler than I.”

Harry glances at Godric. He has a golden sort of complexion; Salah is bronze-brown, like Harry. He’d seen Salah go pale exactly twice, and one of those times she’d thrown up in the nearest bin.

“Is it always this bad?” he asks. They’re walking down a narrow path through the garden, out to the trees. The grass is still wet from the earlier rainfall, but Harry has shiny new shoes that have been charmed against soaking.

“In the first two trimesters, yes,” Godric says. “She’s never had it easy. Our first—” he presses his lips together, “her very first pregnancy, she vomited multiple times a day. It was a bit better with Godiva. Salah can tell you more about the experience than I, really.”

Harry almost asks what happened with that very first pregnancy, but he sees Godric’s distant, pained gaze, and lets it be. He’s left to wonder, instead, if his mum had been so nauseated or if her body had been kinder, about how she’d broken the news to his dad, how soon they’d know they’d be having a boy…

They pass through the trees, then—it’s not really a forest, so much as a thick collection of trees, and after a minute or so it opens up to a small clearing. One old, ivy-covered stone stands at about Godric’s height.

“This,” Godric says, “is Griffon’s Door.”

Much like with the ash tree in Gryposcire town, Harry doesn’t know what to do with this. A stone is not much of a door—not by its own. It’s a plain thing, too, unevenly grey under the ivy. As harry moves closer to it, however, he has a distinct sensation of a thrum in the air. This stone is magical.

“It’s always just been the one stone,” says Godric, “ever since I was a child. My father told me, as his mother had before that, that to call it a door is misleading. It’s more like a spike or a nail, pinning down magic to the earth.”

The vibration drums almost...louder, like recognition. Harry’s world is unfocused, blurred, and something seems to touch him, like a greeting. It passes.

“Are there more?” he asks.

“There used to be,” Godric says. Even as his voice is, Harry detects a hint of sadness. “This one remains, and in 1910 the one in Godric’s Hollow still stood. The Heel Stone is well-documented. There’s more, but this one is currently the strongest.”

“Godric’s Hollow?” Harry swallows the thickness in his throat away. “I was born there.”

“So you were,” says Godric. “We should visit.”

What had happened to the other stones, Godric tells Harry on their way back, is that there is no one left to watch over them. Families had died out without heirs, and the Statute had stripped away the rights of non-magical lords and ladies from governance of their lands. Without their keepers, many stones have gone dormant.

“The Statute is also  _ why _ a lot of families died out,” Godric says. “After people became obsessed with blood purity, the pool of marriage candidates became rather small. It’s set magic back by rather a lot.”

“It’s  _ stupid, _ ” says Harry.

Godric throws his hands up and laughs.

Salah waits for them on the porch, still dressed in her pyjamas. Winky brings her a glass of carbonated water, which Salah grimaces at but sips from anyway. Godric bends down to kiss the crown of her head.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“A bit of fresh air,” says Salah. “Some cardboard to nibble on.” She waves the cracker. “What could be better for my health?”

“A good breakfast?” Harry suggests.

“If you want to see me throw up so badly, you only have to  _ ask _ .”

Winky puffs up. “No. We’s not be doing any of that!”

They sit outside to have lunch. Godric extends the warming charm to the entire porch. Winky brings Salah a blanket patterned with cacti, which apparently had been a gift from someone in town. It’s incredibly soft when Harry briefly touches it.

“What’s it like,” he asks, “being pregnant?”

Salah blows out a breath. “Well, I’m eighteen weeks along now, so things are spicing up a bit in the stomach area. And because it’s me, the nausea has not gone. There’s been a few kicks now, which is always such a pleasantly horrifying feeling.”

“You’d think she’d be happy the baby’s lively,” Godric says.

“Certainly,” says Salah, “if you like the sensation of tiny feet jabbed against your lower abdomen.” She places her hand just under the rounding of her belly; it’s the first time Harry notices it. “For now it’s mostly like gas, or butterflies. Soon I’ll find elbows jammed against the wall of my womb. It’s great.”

Despite the horrifying image that leaves Harry with, Salah grins happily. She pats her underbelly lightly. Then she says, to Harry, “Class starts at two-thirty sharp.”

It’s twelve-thirty now, which gives Harry a full two hours to agonise over a letter to Malfoy—in his bedroom, alone, because he’s not about to admit to anyone that he wants to write Malfoy a letter, let alone that he’s struggling with it.

After half an hour, he writes another letter to Ron instead. He has to stop when Hedwig returns with a reply to the previous one, in which Ron’s paranoia about Hermione is somewhat allayed. Another one is from Ginny, who in three days will leave with Luna and Xenophilius to go visit Bergen, Norway. Harry writes them a joint letter and attaches his handwritten copy of their bloodline starting at Elfryda of Griffon’s Door. He  _ doesn’t _ tell them outright that Professor Oswin is actually Godric of Griffon’s Door in the flesh, but it’s a near thing.

Five minutes before time, he meets Salah in a study on the west of the house, downstairs. He has his books and some preliminary notes; it pays to be prepared. She yawns, apparently just up from a nap, and bids him sit at the other side of the desk.

“To be perfectly clear,” says Salah, “I’ll be teaching you Español, yes, but the Castilian veriant.  _ Castellano, _ we say. I may introduce you to Basque or even Andalusian Arabic if we come that far, but for now…”

After about twenty minutes, Harry’s notes extend to about five pages. First, Salah has him go over some simple pronouns, then to words that apply to their surroundings— _ casa, hogar, jardín, techo, puerta, ventana _ , and so on. Then it’s time to make them all plural, which is actually easy enough that Harry gets it fairly quickly.

She doesn’t test his pronunciation, which is for the best.

He’s progressed to articles—they’re  _ gendered _ in Spanish; whomever had been crazy enough to think that a good idea, Harry is glad they’d stayed away from English—when Winky appears at Salah’s right.

Incredibly disgruntled and displeased. Winky says, “The Order of Phoenix is being requesting Mistress’ presence.”

Salah gives the Elf a small, tired laugh. “I am not leaving my house. I’m busy. Tell them I’m sick. Which—I am.”

Footsteps edge nearer to the study. Winky perks up. “Master Godric!”

“Yes?” says Godric as he walks in.

“The Order requires my presence,” Salah informs him. “Give them my regards?”

Godric heaves a sigh. “Who did you go and murder behind my back? They probably deserved it, but I need to know these things beforehand.” He lays a kiss on Salah’s forehead and readily departs with Winky.

Curious, Harry asks, “Are you not allowed to Apparate either?”

Salah shrugs. “I don’t feel like it. My stomach agrees.”

As both their concentrations are now shot, Salah puts on some music—Spanish, so Harry can get used to the cadence of the language. It’s a mix of music from Spain, the Americas and Caribbean. Salah sings along enthusiastically to Gloria Estefan’s  _ Mi Tierra _ , and pulls Harry into a dance.

It requires a good sense of rhythm and knowledge of how to move one’s hips. Harry trips over his feet, which sends them both in a fit of giggles.

She takes the time to explain to him, then, the situation in Cuba. Harry, who barely knows anything about the Caribbean other than that it exists, listens as closely as he can. He hadn’t even known of a revolution, started just a year shy of his father’s birth.

“I like it because it celebrates the strength of a people,” says Salah. “And the pain they withstand, in being away from their home.” she sighs. “At the same time it reminds me that I am often away from the country of my birth, and of the struggle we went through to survive the dictatorship under Franco.”

When Godric returns, they’ve moved down to the cellar which, instead of wine, houses potions ingredients, and cauldrons made from all kinds of metals. There’s even one made of stone, which Harry has the pleasure of using for the first time. “That way the potion doesn’t absorb any metals,” Salah explains. “I’d rather not poison anyone I actually like.”

Godric stops at the foot of the stairs. “Salah.”

She blinks at him. They hadn’t started the potion yet; Salah had been showing Harry where everything is stored and  _ why _ . Some ingredients are in the garden, but a lot of them need to be away from sun and moonlight.

After a second, Salah nods. She gestures for Harry to follow them up, but he lags a bit behind. He’d rather stay here and experiment.

Upstairs in the parlour, the Malfoys wait for them—Narcissa and Draco. Lady Malfoy has a hand on her son’s shoulder, but her eyes track Salah. For all that Lady Malfoy has always seemed so elegantly cold to Harry, now she looks tired and pale. He doesn’t dare look at Draco.

“Welcome to our home,” says Salah. “Your situation must be dire indeed, if Godric has brought you here.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy, the younger, turn to stare at Godric. Even though Harry has known now for more than a week, he still has trouble wrapping his head around it; Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin are not only married, but very much alive.

“Yes,” Lady Malfoy replies. “It concerns mostly my son. His safety is paramount.”

After a brief silence, Salah nods. “Come with. We will discuss this in our study.”

Their movement makes Harry’s heart thunder. He’s not included in the entourage to the study, nor is Malfoy, so they’re left all by themselves in the study.

They stare at each other. Malfoy has a large bruise on his cheek and a cut in his lip. Despite that, he stands with his head held high, shoulders and back straight.  _ He’s so frail, _ thinks Harry,  _ so steadfast. _

He says, “I’ve been meaning to write you a letter.”

Malfoy quirks a brow. “Have you?”

“I just—I didn’t know how,” Harry admits. “I’ve never written a—well not to you.”

_ Smooth, Potter, _ says a voice in his head. Butterflies upset his stomach and he’d rather  _ digest them _ than feel so completely idiotic;  _ nerves _ had never been a problem around Malfoy before. They hadn’t even been a problem when this silly crush had suddenly reared its head, but they certainly have become a problem now.

“But you wanted to,” says Malfoy. “Write a letter.”

“Yeah.” Harry jams his hands into his pocket. They’re kind of useless, and they’ve taken to trembling.

Malfoy spreads his arms. “Well, I’m here now.”

Not that Harry can even  _ talk _ normally anymore. It’s like his dumb crush on Cho, except worse, somehow, because Cho hadn’t stared at him intently with light grey eyes, lips quirked into a tiny smile. His crush on Cho had been  _ easy _ compared to this.

“How’s your summer been.” His voice does a little crack.  _ I’m past that age. _ Malfoy gestures at his face. Harry winces. “Right.”

“I gather yours has been better,” says Malfoy.

Harry snorts. “Well, I’m not locked up in a bedroom nor being told off for trying to catch a bit of news, so, yeah, I reckon this is far better.”

Malfoy frowns. “They did that to you?”

“They did a lot,” says Harry. “They did worse. I’d—I’d rather not...”

He really fears Malfoy will press. Hermione certainly has, not that Harry blames her. She’d have wanted to drag the Dursleys to court for it.

But Malfoy nods. “You look...good.”

He’d deviated from something else, Harry can tell because Malfoy’s cheeks go lightly pink. Harry has missed that, has missed Malfoy in general. No summer before has been this bizarre, and he’s glad for it.

“Thanks,” he says. “They took me shopping in London. Then I was allowed to burn all of Dudley’s hand-me-downs.” It had been rather therapeutic, that. He’s not some second-hand  _ thing _ anymore, no longer lesser than or of lesser importance than his hulking bully of a cousin. 

Malfoy gives a little “ah.”

When was the last time they’d been this awkward around each other? They’ve never... _ existed _ in a room without taunts and mean jabs, not until after Christmas of last year. After that, Salah had been there a lot of times, granting plenty of opportunities for conversation. Now that she’s not here, Harry can’t say  _ anything _ .

It’s not raining outside. In fact, there’s even a bit of sun to be had.

“So, Malfoy,” Harry starts.

“Draco,” says he, “call me Draco.”

Electricity goes down Harry’s spine. “All right,” he says, “Draco. Would you like to sit outside?”

“Yes.”

“Winky will bring refreshments!” says the elf. Harry jumps at about the roof’s height because he’d forgotten Winky’s entire existence in the process of making an attempt at communicating with Mal—Draco.

Draco, of course, shows no signs of trouble with situational awareness. Prat.

They go to the front of the house and sit on the steps. Draco makes no mention of how undignified it is for a Malfoy to be sat like this; instead he looks at the field ahead, with hills in the distance. The sun is still a bit timid, but the breeze has died down.

“Where are we?” asks Draco. He graciously accepts a glass of apple cider from Winky. She leaves them with a plate of apple pastries, too.

“Gryposcire,” says Harry. “Or Griffon’s Shire. This,” he gestures at the house behind them, “is Griffon’s Door manor.”

It’s probably lucky that Draco isn’t drinking yet. “So, he really is—did you know, before you came here?” It’s almost an accusation.

“They told me on the way.”

Draco looks at him, searching. Then he takes a delicate sip, tasting, and seems pleased enough with what he finds. “I still can’t even believe that Salah is—” He shakes his head. “But here we are. My best friend is also the founder of Hogwarts.”

Harry stills at the words ‘best friend’. It just doesn’t seem quite possible, that after five years of Hogwarts, Salah would be Draco’s best friend. Harry doesn’t know who  _ else  _ can hold the position, either; Parkinson had dropped Draco quickly when he’d changed his tune, and he’d resolutely abandoned Crabbe and Goyle after Crabbe had broken Harry’s ribs during Quidditch.

_ And she  _ had _ made him change his attitude _ .

The cider is good, when Harry drinks it. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he settles into the silence as well as he can. Except he can’t, really. “What do you reckon they’re discussing in there?”

“Me,” says Draco. “Whether Salah and... _ Godric _ will protect me from V-Voldemort...and my father.”

“I’m sure they will.” Of course they would. Salah wouldn’t have gone through the effort of making Draco see the error of his ways only to drop him at the first opportunity. Moreover, Draco had gone through the same hell as they had, with the battle at the Ministry.

...which is part of the problem, it occurs to Harry suddenly. Lucius Malfoy had been there and had lived to see his own son stand against him and his loyalties. Then Lucius had been arrested for all of five days before the Dementors had defected to Voldemort, in yet another scandal for Fudge’s cabinet.

He doesn’t ask about the bruise or the cut.

Lady Malfoy comes out to meet them some minutes later. She nods to Harry, and he returns it in kind. Her focus, really, is on her son; she takes his hands in hers, squeezes. For a short moment, the anguish is so clear on her face it  _ hurts. _

“Be well,” she whispers before she steps away. Harry doesn’t even know how he could have ever thought her cold, even after she snaps back into her usual aloof mask.

“Winky will take Mistress Black to Malfoy Manor,” the Elf announces. Lady Malfoy accepts the elf’s hand. They disappear.

“We’re keeping you,” Salah tells Draco, “for the foreseeable future. You’re to be mine and Godric’s ward until your mother deems it safe for you to return, or else you are of age and can look after yourself.”

Draco nods, somber. “Thank you. I don’t wish to be a burden—”

“Draco,” says Salah. She steps closer, taking his hands. “You will never be a burden. You’re my friend, and I will keep you safe no matter what.”

Godric adds, “We were actually discussing the option of coming to collect you ourselves,” which is news to Harry, “but your mother conveniently forestalled the attempt at kidnapping.”

It makes Draco go red, but Harry is secretly not-so-secretly pleased. He hadn’t thought Draco to be in any danger, but his hosts have always shown an outstanding amount of foresight.

“Now, let’s take a look at this,” says Salah. She takes Draco’s face into her hands, turns it slightly to look at the bruise, then at the cut.

Behind her, Godric stands with his arms crossed. “What happened?”

“Father,” Draco mutters. “Drinking makes him...violent. I—” something about him seems to twitch, like a nervous tick. “He’s going to take it out on mother when he finds out I’m—”

“Draco,” says Salah. “Your mother is resilient. She would not have brought you to us if she were not strong enough to survive what may come. Trust in her love for you.”

Slowly, after seconds pass by, Draco nods. “She’s not Marked yet.”

“But Voldemort will seek to have a hold on her,” says Godric. “Loyalty for safety.”

“I don’t think it’ll stick,” says Salah. “The Mark only works if you are willing. Narcissa Malfoy does not strike me as a staunch follower of Tom Riddle Jr, and that will work in her favour.”

They bring Draco inside, where they show him his room. It’s across from Harry’s and about as large, which doesn’t seem to faze Draco at all. Winky brings a suitcase in, which has been spelled to be bottomless. When Harry goes for a quick shower before supper and returns to check on Draco, the contents of the suitcase seem to have exploded into the room.

“Feeling at home?” Harry says from the door. He has the pleasure of seeing Draco startle.

“Potter—”

“Call me Harry.”

Draco blinks. “Harry. Must you sneak up on people?” He tucks his wand into his sleeve; Harry has only recently discovered the joys of wand pockets in things other than his school robes. It’s been a blessing.

“Your door is open,” he counters.

After a moment, “So it is.”

Besides, “I don’t sneak,” says Harry, “that’s more of a Slytherin thing.”

“And I suppose Gryffindors stampede their way through, don’t they?”

It’s banter all the way back, like some dam has broken open and they don’t need to hold back the snark between them. The entire way to the parlour, Harry has to suppress the urge to take Draco’s hand in his, to feel if they’re as soft as they look. Once he overcomes that, it’s the platinum curls Draco has grown a bit longer that pester him.

“Have you settled in?” Salah asks when they come into the parlour. Godric pokes at the hearth to start a small fire.

Draco says, “Aside from some stampeding Gryffindors…”

“Aww, baby—I’ll protect you from the mean little Griffons.”

“That’s funny,” says Godric. “You’re carrying one.”

“It could still be a tarantula,” says Salah, then gasps. “Or a Stygimoloch!”

“That’s a made up word,” Draco says as he takes seat. “Wait. You’re pregnant?” Then, with mounting incredulity, “You had _ intercourse _ whilst still  _ at Hogwarts? _ ”

“Intercourse.” Godric almost breathes his laughter unto the hearth. “Yes we did.”

“We were very discreet about it,” says Salah. Godric takes seat next to her, ties his hair back, then throws an arm on the back of the sofa.

“The entire school was distracted with the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match,” Godric says. “Our timing was a bit off, I admit.” He pats Salah’s belly.

“There are spells!” Draco splutters. “Methods!”

Salah chuckles. “They're not infallible, you know. Though, yes, we could’ve worked a bit on the timing.”

Godric shrugs. “We were always shite at family planning.”

Draco covers his eyes.


	4. The Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily and James live on in memories, but whose?

Within a week, Draco has settled into their routine. Harry becomes used to seeing a messy head of blond hair in the mornings; Draco actually looks adorable when he’s yawning, blinking at the morning as if it has endeavored to personally offend him.

With the two of them now here, they reserve Saturday mornings for homework. Godric ends up supervising them to give Salah the morning to sleep in; while her nausea has subsided, she finds herself tired most of the time. She greets them in the afternoon, by which time they’ve finished both their Transfiguration and Charms essays.

Not that either she nor Godric let them off the hook for Defence—not even after their O.W.L.s come in, and both the boys have Os for Defence. He has an O for Potions and somehow for Herbology as well (thanks Neville), and Es for everything except for Astronomy and Divinations, both of which he has an A for. And History, which he’s surprised to see an A for given how terribly the exam went

Draco, the overachieving swot that he is, has mostly Os except for Care of Magical Creatures (E), Transfiguration (E), and Runes (E). He seems particularly upset at his grade in Runes, muttering under his breath that he must’ve been wrong about “sowelu”, whatever that means; it just sends Harry in a full body flashback to when Hermione had been practically exhaling Runes left and right.

“Excellent work, both of you,” says Salah. She has her own letter with results, which she’d snorted at the owl for and then tossed aside. Harry is almost  _ afraid _ to look at her grades. Draco is not.

“O’s in  _ everything, _ ” he says, incredulous.

“Please, says Salah, rolling her eyes, “the standards these days are so  _ low _ . You don’t learn any languages besides English—no proper Latin, no Scots Gaelic even though the school is  _ in _ Scotland. You don’t even learn basic first aid—I’m not talking healing spells; magicians these days are  _ far _ too dependent on magic—what do you do when you lose your wand, hey? ‘Muggle Studies’,” she uses air quotes, “is an absolute joke. Why are we even using that word for non-magical people? Why are we using a word that was specifically created to be demeaning to people who have no control over the circumstances of their birth. And the class itself? A farce. An  _ outdated _ farce. Herbology is completely separate from Potions, and I’d like to speak to the dunce who made  _ that _ grave mistake—”

“Slow down,” says Godric, “breathe.”

“It’s not Hugiweard anymore, Godric,” says Salah, “This isn’t—I don’t recognise it anymore. Everything we built. Everything we left in capable hands…”

“I know.” Godric closes his eyes. “But we’ve returned to this mess, and we will unfuck it.” He looks at the boys. “And what better time to start than now.”

It’s decided among them that Sunday is to be for Mind Magic and Monday entirely free of lessons on account of it being Monday. Harry uses that as a day to familiarise himself with the contents of the manor’s garden; at first glance it seems mundane, as pretty and colourful as any well-kept flower garden, but closer inspection unearths a wide variety of herbs, flowers and other ungodly specimens. He makes a list.

Salah puts them both on Wolfsbane-brewing duty. “Two hands make quicker work and all that,” she says. “No extra credit, but if we can impress Severus Snape, I’ll bargain for full marks.”

They start immediately on Wednesday—at least, with the gathering of ingredients. The potion itself has to sit for a week before the full moon, and it takes two to brew. They’re a little late for that; the new moon had just passed on monday, so they have the remaining two weeks of July to gather up everything they need.

It’s the most complex potion Harry has ever worked on. It’s also the most expensive, Draco informs him, listing the prices for each ingredient off the top of his head. Luckily, Salah grows all of them in her garden.

Harry and Draco get to collect them—for practice. Not all of them can be picked up at once; Wolfsbane itself has to be left until the new moon, so it’s the last one on the list.

They return into the kitchen with an armful for Salah to be checked off. She’s not alone when they get there.

“Sev,” says Draco. He freezes in the door to the kitchen, just behind Harry.

Severus Snape turns to them. He looks... _ strange. _ His curtain of black hair is now shorter and not really greasy. He’s not even wearing proper robes, which is what really sets all sorts of alarms off in Harry’s head; Snape’s in black jeans and a beige jacket over a plain black t-shirt.  _ I’m having an aneurysm. _

“Professor,” he manages to say.

“Potter,” says Snape. The man looks at the ingredients Harry and Draco carry with them, but instead turns to Draco. “I trust you have been well?”

“I am,” says Draco. He places the herbs he carries on a counter near Salah. She’s very keen to inspect them. “How is mother?”

“Biding her time,” says Snape. Draco nods as if that’s actually informative, somehow, whereas Harry just thinks it’s descriptive. Then Snape goes and says, “I trust you are fit for travel, Potter?” and Harry is  _ certain _ he’s in the middle of a terrible and rather elaborate episode of heart failure.

Instead of standing there with his mouth open like some sort of idiotic fish, Harry decides to hand Salah his selection of garden pickings. It’s much easier.

“I am  _ now _ .”

“It’s come to my attention that you’re unaware of where your parents were buried,” Snape says. Harry’s heart stops entirely. “I mean to rectify that.”

Harry throws a wide-eyed look at Salah. She’s in the process of sipping and grimacing at her glass of carbonated water, but manages a nod.

And that is how Harry finds himself in the company of Severus Snape, in a village in West Country. Quaint little cottages line the streets; one in particular, by the name of Church Lane, leads to the eponymous church.

Godric’s Hollow is the epitome of a village. Unlike Gryposcire, it is quintessentially magical; Godric has told Harry that many wizarding families had fled here after the Statute, building up ties to support each other in those trying times. It was the one place they did not have to fear prosecution.

Behind St. Jerome’s Church sits the graveyard. Harry freezes at the metal archway, with the full summer sun blazing at his back. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see this, to know, finally, where his parents have found their last resting place—it just carries a certain finality to it, and his parents’ ghosts are the only things he has.

Snape waits patiently for Harry to cross unto the grounds. They stop at one perfectly smooth grey stone that Harry takes in blankly before he sinks to his knees.

 

_ In Loving Memory of _

 

_ James Potter & Lily Potter _

_ Born: 27th March 1960 | Born 30th January 1960 _

_ Died: 31st October 1981 | Died: 31st October 1981 _

 

_ “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.” _

 

Harry doesn’t know what he had expected. The stone is impersonal, and the engraving seems entirely out of place, like it had been thrown on to fill up empty space. He traces the letters with his fingers, not knowing what else to do.  _ How does one show respects to one’s deceased parents? _

“Petunia did that,” Snape informs him flatly. “She may have fancied it a slight to quote from the bible on the grave of people she considered godless freaks.”

It sounds so much like the aunt Harry knows that he has to laugh. “Did you know her or something?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Snape. Harry stares up at him, disbelieving, and he explains, “They lived a block away from Spinner’s End. Your mother—Lily was my best friend. Petunia Evans would rather have seen me choke, and the feeling is mutual.”

Harry ponders that for a moment. It strikes him that he knows very little about his parents, especially his mother. Until today, he hadn’t even known where she’d lived, didn’t even know she’d had any friends, least of all Severus Snape. It’s... _ insane. _

“What was she like, my mother?”

Snape looks impassively down at him. Some of Salah’s immunity must have passed on to Harry, because he stares right back. Snape says, “Lily was brilliant at everything she did. She was bossy and steadfast and made you believe she would change the world. She certainly changed mine.”

For the first time since they’ve met, Snape seems  _ human. _ He doesn’t smile or anything as outlandish, but something about him seems to come to life as he tells Harry of all the mischief Lily and he had gotten into, of how his mother would make flowers bloom in her hand, of the one time she had climbed the roof on a dare and jumped—only to float down safely. Her parents had grounded her on the spot for it.

“Not that she cared,” Snape tells Harry. “She’d just done the impossible. Petunia went green with envy and wouldn’t talk to her for days.”

“I ended up on a chimney once,” Harry tells him. “Not on purpose, really. Dudley and his gang of bullies chased me around, and I wanted to jump behind the trash cans outside the kitchen doors—ended up on the roof. Sitting on the chimney.”

He might have just imagined it, but Harry thinks the edges of Snape’s mouth twist upwards.

Before they leave, Snape taps the headstone. The change isn’t grandiose; he simply adds Evans to Lily’s surname, and Harry learns his mother’s middle name had been Jade. It suits her.

“There’s something I want you to know,” says Snape. They’re almost at the gate.

Harry stops. This doesn’t sound like something they should discuss whilst walking, not when Snape looks like he’s swallowed something sour. So he waits.

It comes like a blow. “I am the reason Voldemort knew of the prophecy. I...overheard Sybil Trelawney relaying it to Dumbledore.”

Now, Harry is not prepared for this many revelations all cropped in one day, so he would rather like to sit. There’s no place to do that, so his legs will have to suffer this upright position until further notice.

For once, Snape does not regard him impassively. There is a moment of guilt that Harry is sure he sees, before Snape slips back to a more blank state.

“Why?” Harry asks. He balls his fist; hitting a man twice his age out in the open is likely to cause problems, but  _ God save him _ , he wants to punch Snape so bad. The man  _ deserves it _ .

“I was a fool,” says Snape. “I was caught in a war I did not agree to, on a side I had chosen out of spite. By then, Lily and I had become estranged because of...choices I made. I had only just heard that she had married your father but when The Dark Lord went and chose  _ her son _ as his undoing…”

Unsettled, Harry looks away. Teeth ground together, “I lost my parents because of you.  _ I never—I never got to know them.” _ Well-placed guilt doesn’t earn forgiveness.

“I am not asking for your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it.” When Harry turns to look at him, tears glistening in his eyes, Snape presses his lips together. “I merely…” he sighs. “You deserve to know.”

Harry glares at him, fingernails digging into his palm. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he nods.

Snape continues, “I went to The Dark Lord to bargain for your mother’s life.” At Harry’s sharp look, he adds, “Yes, only hers. I will admit I hated your father for the miserable years he caused me at Hogwarts. That doesn’t mean he deserved to die, but no one would believe it if I wanted him to live. Your life was already forfeit, so it was hers I could still barter for. I naively believed that if both of them just valued their lives enough, they would survive and start anew. I was—” Snape inhales. “Wrong. They loved you more.”

On some vague, distant level, Harry can appreciate the practicality behind such a thought. But pragmatism and reality do not often overlap, and the reality is that his parents had loved him so much, they had laid down their lives so he would have a chance at his own. It  _ hurts. _   
  


“I have been cruel to you over the years,” says Snape, “because I thought you exactly as your father—arrogant, thinking himself above the rules. In many ways, I was also wrong about that. In many ways, you’re still a brat. But I understand Lily’s—your parents’ decision, and I am glad for it.”

 

***

Friday sees Harry on another visit to St Mungo’s. Sirius’ condition has barely changed, which leaves Harry with an empty sort of feeling, and Godric with the impatient kind. It’s not that Harry doesn’t care, per se, but a lot of things have been taken from him, and if it’s now Sirius who the world deems he must lose, he might as well ward against the grief.

They go for ice cream afterwards. It’s so hot, even the Healers at St. Mungo’s had seemed to be melting, and yet Godric walks about in a pristine pale yellow suit over a purple dress shirt and  _ a cravat _ tied around his neck.

“How are you not  _ dying _ ,” says Harry. His little cup on mocha ice cream is heavenly cold in his hands.

“Very carefully,” Godric responds. “I refuse to let go of certain fashions.”

It’s possible Harry may have preferred it when Godric went around  _ not _ looking like he rules a small kingdom, because that had been a terrible enough time. Not that Godric doesn’t occasionally return to the good old flannel and jeans look, but Harry can only deal with so much before he starts crying at all the beautiful people around him.

Take for instance Draco, who upon their return has gotten Winky to pierce his left ear. The little silver earring looks nice on him and has to stay in for a week or so. Harry spends most of Saturday morning trying to avoid looking at Draco because of how  _ good _ he looks with the earring, like some kind of rock star pretty boy.

He has to rewrite his Herbology notes because of that thought.

Harry hadn’t managed to write that promised letter to Mrs Weasley either, so he tries again on Sunday morning. Ron certainly had been pleased to receive the expansion on his family tree, and Ginny apparently likes it so much she’s framed it. She had been the one to show it to their parents, who in turn had been surprised into speechlessness.

Mrs Weasley had sent a thank you by way of Ron.

Sometime late in the morning, Draco gets his attention. Harry is still trying to formulate that cursed letter—no luck whatsoever. “You look to be struggling. Fancy some fresh air?”

“God, yes,” says Harry. “You haven’t gone to Gryposcire town yet, have you?”

They alert Salah to their departure, and she produces a water bottle for Draco. It’s not as deadly hot as yesterday, but they’re not taking any chances. Gryposcire, apart from being hidden from prying eyes, seems entirely divorced from normal British weather.

Draco, with his nigh pearly skin, is wise enough to put on sunscreen and cover up for good measure. Harry wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he were to see Draco’s knobbly shoulders. They walk side-by-side, and their fingers brush whenever the path narrows.

It is a pleasure to watch Draco’s unfolding astonishment at a town of peacefully coexisting witches, wizards and Muggles—“Non-magical people,” Harry corrects.

“Right,” says Draco. He looks about. “Hope nobody’s offended by the slip up. I don’t want another lecture on how the word is ‘demeaning to people who have no control over the circumstances of their birth.’” Harry grins at him; Draco had cited Salah word for word.

“She’s right,” Harry tells him.

Mock-offended, Draco places an arm on his chest. “Would I claim otherwise? Perish the thought!”

They meander through the town without much of a goal in mind. Draco becomes red-cheeked and hyperactive after some candy floss, dragging Harry everywhere by the hand as if he’s unaware of it. He certainly doesn’t know how much it wrecks Harry’s insides, because Draco’s hands  _ are _ indeed soft, though sticky from the floss.

The lovely thing about Gryposcire town is that it has all sorts of wonderful details to get lost in—griffons etched in stone on main streets, a chapel where cats seem to congregate at midday, a small rose of the winds in the town’s square, and a tiny bookshop dedicated to the history of the county.

It’s closed on Sundays, to their dismay. Harry says, “We’re free tomorrow. We can come back for it.”

“It’s such a lovely little town,” says Draco as they walk back to the manor. “A scandal to pureblood sensibilities, mind you, so we must protect it at all cost!”

“You’ve really changed, haven’t you?” says Harry.

For a full moment, Draco actually stops. He’s quiet in a way Harry hasn’t experienced before, and it startles him.

“I’ve had to,” Draco says softly. “I couldn’t—I can’t be who I was, a shell, a perfect little copy of my father. I was shallow, I—think a part of me was dying.”

“And now?” says Harry, struck breathless. Standing here, in front of Draco—beautiful, shining in the sunlight, lips and cheeks pink, is not how he had imagined his summer would go. He feels blessed.

Fantastically, Draco grins. “Oh, now I am alive. And I am going to enjoy every last second of it.”

He bounces into the parlour, where Salah rests with her head in Godric’s lap. Draco beams at them with the power of ten British suns, when such a thing deigns to appear. Godric’s fingers briefly pause where they’re busy caressing Salah’s curls, so she cracks open one eye to see what the interruption is about.

Godric asks, “How much sugar did you give him?”

“A  _ lot, _ ” Draco says. He throws himself into a chair, legs over the arm. 

Harry shrugs. “Candy floss.”

“Sal, we can’t leave the children unsupervised…” starts Godric’s dramatic monologue.

By suppertime, Draco has returned to a more collected sort of disposition, with a hint of mischief in the glint of his eye. Harry is both saddened and relieved at this turn of mood; it means Draco no longer clings to him at every given opportunity.

Mind Magic lessons take the seven o’clock slot. This gives Harry plenty of time to touch up his shields. He Occludes every night before sleep and every morning when he’s barely awake. So far, no visions  have come to bother him and he finds he does not miss them at all.

Godric knocks on his door ten minutes ahead of time. “Harry? If you’re ready.”

He is, once he puts on a cardigan. Godric doesn’t lead him downstairs to the parlour, which is where their Mind Magic lessons are to take place. Instead, it’s a small, cozy room on the first floor, with cushions they can sit on.

“We won’t be having the usual session today,” Godric tells him. “Sal and I… have been worried about the ease with which Voldemort possessed you. To be entirely honest, we’re rather...suspicious of this connection you two have.”

Harry can’t help but feel nervous, suddenly. “It’s always been there.”

Godric frowns. “And there’s the rub.” He has Harry take a seat before he continues. “You see, we’ve seen this before, and it was...heartbreaking.” He presses his lips together. “You remember Salah talked about Voldemort fragmenting his soul?”

Oh, Harry doesn’t like where this is going. “Yeah. He put it into objects.”

“Yes, that is usually how it goes. Objects are stabler, easier—vacant. Living beings,” Godric pulls a face, “that’s complicated. There’s already a soul there.”

“You think he’s put a fragment,” Harry clenches his teeth, unclenches, “in me.”

“We can’t be sure,” says Godric. “He might have. It would explain certain things. We don’t reckon he did it on purpose, but he did kill your mother. That sort of thing fractures the soul, especially one already in pieces…”

_ We suspect at least one other, _ Salah had said,  _ and he’s likely made more _ . “Are you going to destroy me?”

Godric quirks a brow. “That’s one way to get rid of a soul container. However, we’re rather fond of you, so your destruction is out of the question.”

Relieved, Harry nods. “What now?”

“We see if our suspicions are correct,” Godric says. “If they are, then we work to separate that vile thing from your mind and body. It won’t be easy,” he pauses to look directly at Harry, “the fragment will do it’s utter best to stay exactly where it is, so you have to be willing to put up a fight.”

Harry laughs bitterly. “That’s my life, isn’t it?”

That doesn’t make Godric happy, but he accepts it. “You won’t be alone for this fight. Or any future ones, for that matter.”

The true test, he finds, is in keeping his mind open so that Godric doesn’t have to fight his way through. His defences are now so engrained, it takes three attempts on Godric’s part to get through the first layer, and then another five before Harry can relax enough to just  _ observe _ as Godric gently makes a path.

Recent memories are first—his walk with Draco, the way his curls had bounced in the wind, the pinkness of his cheeks. Godric treads so lightly, Harry almost has to make an effort to feel him, but then has to stop when hedges threaten to close off the path.

Then comes the graveyard, with Snape in his unusual tenue and a tiny smile Harry had missed from the other day. The memories go by so quickly, Harry loses track of them until suddenly they’re at Hogwarts and he sees Salah sorted into Slytherin, the thestrals as Luna tells him they’ve always been there—Umbridge at the hearing, Mrs Figg telling them about Dementors—  

—carrying Dudley back to the house, number four, where is—

—Cedric’s body flies backwards—underwater, the merpeople screech at him but he can’t just leave Gabrielle there, alone, when—the Hungarian Horntail looms above him, and there, the—  

Remus looks at the moon, and Sirius is yelling, pushing him away—Scabbers is squeaking madly, growing, growing—the twins give him a blank parchment, “I solemnly swear I’m—”, and a black dog stares at him from across—  

—Fawkes is crying, and Ginny stares at him, bewildered—Lockhart points Ron’s broken wand at them, says—whispers, whispers in the walls, like hissing, like the snake Malfoy had—

A push. Harry groans under the strain of it, but has to keep his guard down. Godric is searching, searching, searching, further, past, beyond—

“Gryffindor!”, shouts the hat, and a roar of applause comes from—a boy sits next to him, blond and pale, with silver eyes and the pointiest face—the door breaks down and a big, hulking mad comes through, his bushy hair and beard—  

—the Dursleys had never wanted him, really. Sometimes Harry imagines someone would come and take him away, reveal that he’s not alone in the world after all, that he is  _ wanted _ , and not just a freak, not really, it’s just that strange things always happen around him, like all of his hair growing back in one night, like the snake from Brazil he had spoken to—  

He stares down at a woman. Her hair is dark red, like autumn, and her eyes bright green. “Not Harry,” she begs, “please,  _ please,  _ take me instead.”

Her husband is dead, he had seen to that. The fool had left his wand elsewhere, had left himself defenseless. Snape had begged him to spare this woman, and he can. It’s the child he wants, the child wailing in the crib behind his mother, black hair and her bright green eyes.

He points his wand at her—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Awkward wave] Yeah.  
> I won't promise anything, but updates may happen faster. It's been easier to write, lately.


	5. The Papers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's bad news all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But good news for you guys: I have maybe one and a half more chapter to write before I wrap this up, which puts the total amount of chapters at 17 (again). Wheeee

A bee struggles against the window. Harry is primarily aware of the buzzing, the soft clatter against glass. Then he is aware of being horizontal, on  _ his bed _ , which had certainly not been true a second ago.

It’s morning. Harry rolls unto his back and  _ regrets _ it; there’s a lump at the back of his head that even a soft pillow doesn’t ward him against. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, with his socks on.

After carefully stretching out his limbs—they still work, nice—he frees the bee from its war against window glass. The air outside is  _ balmy _ , and the sun informs him it’s sometime past midday, probably. He has absolutely no recollection of anything beyond his conversation with Godric. Everything else is black or static.

Soft voices lead him to the kitchen. Everything around him is overly bright, like someone’s gone and added flares to the environment whilst Harry was out.

“You’re up,” Draco says, sounding relieved and surprised at once. He looks at Harry as if he were the second coming of Christ. 

Godric fusses over Salah, who looks about as happy to be awake as Harry is. She squints, makes a miserable face, and hugs her robe tighter.

“You’re burning up,” Godric says, hand pressed against Salah’s forehead.

Softly, she says, “Your hand is cool.” She sighs into his embrace, making soft, displeased noises even as he rubs her back.

“We’re glad you’re awake again, Harry,” Godric says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could eat the elephant that ran me down,” he says, and means it. He’s feeling a bit light in his head and limbs, as if the last bit of energy he’d had, had been used up to get him here. Godric looks sympathetic.

“We were about to attach an IV to you,” Salah mutters, “but we weren’t sure how your body would react to that.”

“I still think sticking needles into a person is barbaric,” says Draco. Godric rolls his eyes.

Harry, in the meantime, thinks that’s all a bit drastic, but is distracted when Winky makes her appearance. “Master Harry!” says she, beaming at him, “Winky was so worried! Would Master Harry like something to eat? It being days, after all!”

“Wh—” He frowns at the Elf. “Yeah, I’d like some pancakes, if that’s okay.” Then he looks to Godric. “It’s only been half a day, right?”

“It’s Thursday, Harry,” Godric says softly.

_ Three and a half? _ He looks to Draco, who nods. That  _ would _ go to explain why Draco had looked at him as if a right miracle had graced their midst, but it doesn’t make any sense. Sunday had been just yesterday. How could it be Thursday already? Why had he slept so long?

“Meet us in the parlour, Winky,” says Godric. He has to do an awkward sort of walk with Salah to move there, but he’s so adept at it Harry concludes it’s not the first time.

He’s the last in the parlour, mostly because everything is still too bright, but also because he’s too confused about the sequence of events. Godric had told them they are to test if a fragment of Voldemort’s soul truly resides in him. Harry’d had to lower all his carefully constructed defenses, and then—

His vision blurs, eyes stinging. The pain in his head intensifies, and he nearly tumbles down to the floor, saved only by Draco’s quick reflexes.

“Harry?”

Three pairs of worried gazes meet his own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t know what—it’s just really—”

Draco leads him to the nearest chair and pushes him into it. Harry would rather curl into a ball and not move again, but he fights off the urge. Across from him, Godric and Salah take seat; she curls around Godric like an overgrown cat wrapped in a blanket.

But Draco doesn’t sit. He stands with his arms crossed, observing Harry’s every twitch.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks. He’s never felt like this. He’s never just lost three days with no recollection as to what lead to it.

Godric gives a weary sigh. “Unfortunately, we have confirmed that there is a fragment of Voldemort’s soul attached to you.” He pauses, which gives Harry exactly five seconds of absolute misery before, “It did not take kindly to me finding it. It took control of you and tried to flee, but failed. In the process, however, it wore you out. We weren’t actually sure which one of you would wake until I checked again yesterday evening.”

Harry’s rather sorry he’d asked. “I’d hoped—” he can’t finish the line. It’s stupid, in retrospect, because his entire life thus far has been cursed.

“So did we,” Salah murmurs. She definitely sounds congested, and also incredibly upset.

“But you said we could get rid of it, right?” It wouldn’t be easy, Godric had said. Nothing about Harry’s life has been easy, much as he hopes the fates will take pity on him and just give him a break. They’d given him two weeks.

“We’ve...technically already started the process,” says Godric. “Mind Magic helps one be aware of one’s own mind and its boundaries. So long as you keep Occluding, you will be fine. The trick is getting to know your mind so well, you can tell what’s you and what’s...the fragment.”

“Horcrux,” says Draco, suddenly pale and anxious, “it’s called a horcrux.” When they all look at him, he adds, quickly, “There was a book in the library…”

“Oh, with the terrible Latin,” says Godric. “I remember that. It was vile. I’m going to forget it all again, if you don’t mind.”

The mood is sombre. Winky brings Harry a plate of pancakes, which doesn’t cheer him up, exactly, but does help with the overall feeling like his bones have been hollowed out, left aching.

He’s only just finished eating when Winky strides in. “A letter from Snowy,” she announces happily. She hands it to Harry and takes his plate.

Snowy is apparently Hedwig, and the letter from Hermione. She’s just returned from Bulgaria after a magical three weeks, and has he already started on his homework? Hermione has a hundred ideas about what to write and not a clue where to start.  _ And have you seen this, _ she writes at the last, alluding to a clipping from  _ The Daily Prophet. _

It’s an article about House Elves— _ The Exodus of the Elves, _ because apparently someone has leaked the agreement to the very paper Salah had not wanted it to appear in. Several elves, all tied to noble wizarding families, have left to Hogwarts.

“For the—” says Godric when Harry shows him the article. Salah sits up so she can get a proper look, but in the process goes green and manages to throw up in the bin Winky conjures. Then she starts coughing as if she’s trying to detach her soul from her body.

“We’re going to have to find out who leaked it,” Godric says as he hands Draco the piece of paper. “The  _ Prophet _ only mentions a reliable source within Hogwarts.”

“That’s nice of them,” says Salah, her soul still firmly attached. “It narrows things down to the entire student body plus the staff. My money’s on the staff.”

“None of them gains anything from it, though,” says Draco. “It may just have been unintentional, or otherwise some underhanded tactic from the  _ Prophet. _ ”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Godric. “Any leak is one more person we have to watch out for. This is benign, all things considered, but it means changing up our schedule to accommodate—”

Whatever he means to say, Dobby interrupts by making an appearance. He stares solemnly up at Godric and says, “Pardon Dobby’s intrusion, Master Godric, Mistress Salah. Headmaster Dumbledore is wanting to speak to Mister Harry Potter.”

“Why,” asks Harry.

“He is not saying such to Dobby, Mister Harry Potter, sir.”

“My hackles,” says Draco, “they have risen.”

“Dobby,” says Salah, “do you perhaps know who told  _ The Daily Prophet _ about the Founders’ agreement with the Elves of Inbhir Nis?”

The Elf shrugs. “Dobby is not knowing anything about that, Mistress.”

“One crisis at a time, please,” says Godric. He drags his hands down his face, then up through his hair. He rather looks like he’s about to lay down on the ground. Instead, he gives out orders.

“Dobby—Dumbledore may not speak to Harry until he explains exactly why. Either Salah or I must be present, as Sirius Black is currently unable to. You,” he directs himself to Salah, “please go to bed and stay there. We can cuddle later. Same goes for you, Harry,” he gives Harry a pointed look. “Cuddling is optional. Draco—I’ve no idea what to have you do, so stay put. I...am going to figure out this mess.”

Harry ends up helping Salah to the master bedchamber and stays there, mostly because he plops down on the bed, exhausted, and partially because the curtains are blessedly drawn. Salah turns several time before settling on her left side.

The trouble is, neither of them can catch sleep quickly enough. Harry’s in a strange bed with a rather fidgety companion, and Salah...he doesn’t know, actually. She seems displeased at the world in general, not that that’s a strange state of mind for her.

“I know,” she says after five minutes, “I  _ know, _ I told Godric that I’d like another baby after this whole ordeal is done. Now, don’t get me wrong; I very much want to have all of his little griffons, but I am in hell. And I have a headache.”

She glares at him when he dares laugh, not that that stops him. It’s not like he’ll ever have to suffer like she does, and he’s rather glad for it, what with all her complaints.

“I see you villain,” Salah says, “I see you delighting in my woes. Rejoice so long thou canst  breathe, for this sickness is a foul enemy indeed.”

“Why do you sound like you’re in a play,” Harry says, shaking with laughter.

“It’s fun!”

 

***

Harry loses another day and a half to wake on Saturday. He’s refreshed in every sense except the part where he desperately needs a shower. During the time it takes him to get clean and dressed, he’s managed to connect his mental shields by way of demonstrating his imaginary class how to handle a maze of monsters.

Draco intercepts him on the stairs and smiles so brilliantly Harry is blinded into a mid-step halt. He should probably do something about his crush.

“Draco,” he says, “hi.”

“Good morning,” says Draco. “I was about to come get you. We’re working on Potions today!”

Godric hides behind the _ Daily Prophet. _ His breakfast is half-eaten, something Harry has yet to witness, but he understands what had attracted Godric’s attention away a mere second later.

HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED?

The picture underneath is of him in his fourth year, photographed by Rita Skeeter. Harry looks on in dismay; he’d really had looked terrible then, thin and frail, with those horrid old glasses that don’t suit his face, his hair unkempt.

_ Gone with Salazar Slytherin, _ the tagline reads,  _ but who is she really? _

“That wasn’t here when I left to check on Harry,” Draco says.

“The owl waited for you to leave, obviously.” Godric abandons the paper for a moment and points at a purple pamphlet. It reads, PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY   
AGAINST DARK FORCES. “Another one brought this, from the Ministry.”

With a sigh, Harry takes seat at the table. It’s toast with ham and eggs, a rare appearance of English breakfast in this house, given the wide palette of Salah and Godric’s tastes. Harry has almost missed it, except now he’s gotten used to a variety of things that salt and pepper don’t quite cover.

Godric has the honour of reading the  _ Prophet  _ article aloud. “ _ Harry Potter appears to have gone missing. His relatives, Muggles, _ ” he pauses briefly at the word, and Harry doesn’t have to look up from his eggs to be able to visualise the disgusted look on Godric’s face, “ _ his relatives have not seen him, and wish to not be approached on the street about it. During the summer, sightings of The Boy Who Lived are rare, but reports indicate that he has gone off with the Spanish Marchioness claiming to be Salazar Slytherin.” _

“ _ ‘Her claim is as true as can be,’” _ Dumbledore is quoted as saying. “‘ _ Hogwarts House Elves have confirmed that they recognise her as one of the founders _ .’” On the topic of Harry’s safety: “‘ _ I have not seen Mr Potter since the end of term, nor have I been allowed contact with him.’ _ ”

“Unbelievable,” says Godric.

“He’s trying to pressure you into having access to Harry,” says Draco. “It’s rather Slytherin, actually, though discourteous.”

“I’m offended,” says Godric. “Sal has never gone below the belt like that. But if that’s the sort of game he wants to play…”

He disappears again behind the  _ Prophet _ , which leaves Harry staring at the old picture of himself, where he uncomfortably smiles at the camera. “ _ However, Healers at St. Mungo’s have told this author that Mr Potter has regularly gone to visit none other than Sirius Black, the only man to have ever escaped Azkaban, and for a long time deemed a dangerous criminal. Mr Black is under treatment for a curse inflicted upon him by his cousin Bellatrix Lestrange during the battle at the Ministry earlier this year. _

_ “Mr Black was charged with the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve” _ Godric exhales sharply, skips the word and instead says, “ _ innocent bystanders. His sentence has been under review pending investigation, as Mr Pettigrew has been discovered to be alive and bearing the Dark Mark.” _

“Pending investigation?” says Harry. He almost interrupts Godric, but the man has all but tossed the paper away in dismay. “How much investigation does it take to conclude Wormtail’s a Death Eater and betrayed his friends?”

“You’d think they’d just give the rat a dose of Veritaserum and be done with it,” says Draco. “But now suddenly they’re just too shy.”

Godric hums. “I must say, I did not expect them to go about it this slow, what with Scrimgeour now being interim-minister. I figured, what with him having been Head Auror just a couple of weeks ago, he’d want to close the case quickly.”

“It would certainly win him the elections in September,” Draco remarks. “If those are still happening anyway.”

“Well, these are times of war,” Godric mutters. Then, “No, I think they’re holding back out of pride. Salah handed Pettigrew over, after all, rather than an Auror. They’ll want to go through every hoop and loop to prove he’s the real thing rather than some Polyjuiced soul.”

“They’ve had plenty of time to go about it,” says Harry, indignant.

Godric sends him a wry look. “Never underestimate bureaucrats.”

“Truer words,” says Salah. She strides in looking for all the world like she’d never been ill a day in her life. “Which bureaucrats are we hating on today?” Godric hands her the paper, pointing at the last paragraph. Salah takes but a few seconds to read before she says, “Pending investigation?!”

“That’s what I said,” says Harry.

Draco grins. “You’re going to love the rest of the article, darling. Have a seat.”

Salah holds the paper low as she reads, which gives them full view of the facial journey she goes on. It’s the only thing keeping Harry amused at this point; he just can’t believe Dumbledore would step to the  _ Daily Prophet _ after all they’ve gone and said about the both of them. Last year Harry had been the local madman, this year he’s suddenly their missing hero.

He wants to be neither of those things. He wants to be just Harry, like he is here in Gryposcire, he wants to be ‘Mister Harry’, like Adelaide calls him every time she sees him. He wants to be left alone.

“Well,” says Salah, “anyone fancy a trip to magical London?”

“No,” says Harry.

“Yes!” says Draco, his voice pitched in delight.

They do go; Harry only agrees after Salah reveals her plan is to peruse the newest potion-brewing books. They go via floo, and Harry topples gracelessly into Godric’s waiting arms. Salah is last after Draco, and they both land with such poise that Harry could cry on the spot.

“[Les vamos a enseñar cómo Desplazarse](-),” Salah tells Godric. “[Juro que me muero si tengo que pasar otra vez por estas malditas llamas.](-)”

“[Y como regresamos](-)?” Godric says, amused.

Salah gives him a sweet smile. “[Estoy segura de que algo se te ocurrirá, amor.](-)”

Harry had understood about a fifth of that, which is nothing, so when Draco looks at him for clarification, he shrugs. “She says they have to teach us something,” he says, “She didn’t like the flames.”

Godric actually beams at him.

Diagon Alley is, for lack of better word, dreary. It’s not completely deserted; people pass them by at a brisk pace, hurrying in and out of shops as if at any moment, they could be assaulted. Some stop briefly to stare at Harry, then see Salah marching on ahead and scurry out of her way.

“Cowards,” Draco mutters.

They pass by Ollivander’s shop, which is still open. Godric splits from them to go inside, and Salah continues on without so much as a glance behind. She takes a turn to Flourish and Blotts which has about three souls in it, and two of them are store attendants. The third is Amanita Flores, who gives Harry a little wave.

Harry sees the store attendant come his way and immediately veers towards Amanita, pulling Draco along. Some people just  _ look _ too eager to talk to The Boy Who Lived.

“Hi,” says Amanita. “Wasn’t expecting to see you—kidnapped and all.” She grins widely. Harry is momentarily distracted by the fact that, whilst talking, she had revealed her tongue is pierced in the middle.

“I like you,” says Draco. “Harry, I like this one.”

“Good,” says Harry, doing his best not to imagine Draco with a tongue piercing. He coughs. “Good. It’s nice to see you.”

“Yeah,” says Amanita, “I’ve been begging my dads for a visit. They wanted to wait for the list of school supplies but aside from mowing the lawn and homework, I don’t have a lot to do.”

Draco shudders. “Such horror you speak of. Though I must say, Diagon Ally doesn’t offer much in entertainment outside of this bookshop.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” says Amanita. “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes has opened at 93 Diagon Alley. My dads and I intend to go there after lunch.”

In his head, Harry intends to ask about the twins’ shop, but his mouth says, “You really have two dads?” because he can’t wrap his mind around it.

“Yeah,” says Amanita, smiling. She looks over her shoulder. “They’re over—oh!”

Over yonder, Salah is in deep discussion with two dark-skinned men. One of them, with long braids, speaks animatedly, whilst the other stands by his side, somehow managing not to get caught in the fray of his partner’s wide gestures.

“I always did think she looked cool,” says Amanita, “but she’s also...terrifying.”

As if it’s some kind of challenge, Draco decides he must drag her towards the adults. Harry trails behind them like a lost puppy; he’s still caught up on the idea that someone can have two dads.

“...people forget that,” Salah is saying. “The non-magical community certainly has, but I’ve noticed it among the magical community as well. Somewhere along the line people decided us Queers are a bit too much to be tolerated. Oh, hello darlings.”

Draco is the loudest. “Hello, you relic.”

“I resent that,” says Salah, a hand placed delicately on her chest. “I’m a  _ valuable _ relic.”

“You’re certainly very intriguing,” says the quieter of Amanita’s dads. “It’s a shame so much time and energy went into maligning you.” He has bright hazel eyes.

“And you said this Tom Riddle fellow—You-Know-Who, is not descended from you?” says the other.

“Oh, heavens, no,” says Salah. “I could even send you that portion of the family tree if you’d like, though I’ve already sent a copy to Xenophilius Lovegood for an article…”

“Oh, that’ll be no trouble at all,” says he, “Our stories will be different enough. And Xenophilius is a dear, really, just rather confused…”

“Your dad’s a reporter?” Harry whispers to Amanita.

She nods. “Used to work for the  _ Prophet _ but quit last year. Wasn’t too happy about the atmosphere there, he said, and he certainly didn’t want to add jabs at a minor in his writing. He’s launching his own publication in September, actually.”

Suddenly, Harry has rather warm feelings for the entire Flores family; Amanita’s dads are married, he sees a second later—golden bands around their fingers. It’s all surreal, down to the moment the bell on the door rings and Godric steps in, looks around, and steps towards them.

“She really has a type, doesn’t she,” Amanita says as Godric hugs Salah from behind. “Professor Oswin almost looks like Godric Gryffindor.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. Godric winks at him.


	6. The Moons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to a bespectacled boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back on a semi-regular updating schedule! Unfortunately my Internet was down yesterday, but here it is!

The week of Harry’s birthday arrives abruptly, and Harry only realises it on Monday because Draco says, “Help me find a gift for Harry, won’t you, Miss Adelaide?”

They’re in the little bookshop in Gryposcire, which belongs to none other than Beitris, Edita’s wife. Adelaide is their granddaughter via their magically adopted son, and Harry is actually in the middle of asking Beitris about magical adoptions and how they differ from non-magical ones.

“Come this way, Mister Dragon!” says Adelaide. Dumbfounded and more than a little confused, Harry watches as Adelaide takes Draco’s hand and leads him along to the back of the shop.

He’d forgotten his own birthday. It’s the first time it’s ever happened; the 31st of July had always been like a monolith in his mind—unshakeable, unforgettable, the one day aside from the first of september, that he could look forward to. Yet he’s become so distracted with everything else that it had slipped his mind that he’s to turn sixteen this coming Wednesday.

“Er,” he says to Beitris. “Where was I?”

She smiles. “Magical adoption, dearie. It’s nae so different from non-magical ones, really. Ye formally and legally become a member of the family adopting ye in both cases. With magical adoptions yer also tied in, well, magically!” she stands from her cushy chair and motions for him to follow.

They stop at a section named ‘Lineages’. There’s several scrolls there—copies, says Beitris, because the real things are just too fragile to be handled without proper care. 

“As a young lass, I was an avid historian,” says she, “and a wee bit of an archeologist, though I hav’n got the proper papers fer that one. Here it is,” she gives Harry a thick book,  _ Annotated Lineages of Gryposcire, _ and then an actual  _ tome _ with no title. The first page says  _ The Ritual of Adoption. _

“I’ll hav’tae make more copies of the Lineages,” says Beitris. “Very popular.”

It’s not very expensive either, and Beitris accepts Galleons. Draco and Adelaide do a good job of hiding whatever it is they’ve chosen for Harry, so he’s left in suspense.

When they arrive back at the house, Winky informs them that Godric is away on Order business again. Draco gives a dramatic sigh reminiscent of Godric’s own exasperated one whenever Winky comes to fetch him. They part ways to store away their newly-bought books and trinkets.

Harry takes a moment to check on his Moly—it’ll bloom sometime in August, but it has grown a lot on the three weeks since he’s planted it. He moves it to the windowsill where it can get proper sun, and then picks up  _ Annotated Lineages of Gryposcire. _

It’s nothing at all like the tree Salah and Godric showed him. This is entirely concerned with the families of the town, to the very first settlers. He’s already halfway to the room with the tree, so he may as well go there; some of the older names are familiar, which likely means those of Griffon’s Door mixed with people from town.

Salah is already there. She’s brought a bench to sit on, and her hand rests on her belly, now too obvious to hide under her regular clothes. She gives him a little smile when he comes in, holding his book open.

“I am feeling nostalgic,” she tells him.

He takes seat next to her. “Who are you remembering?”

She looks at the tree.  _ Idris Ælfsige _ glows in a gentle green light. “My son,” she says.

He’s the youngest, after Godiva Constanza and Amat Sunniva. The latter had gotten her name from her paternal grandmother, Sunniva Aebbe. They’d all lived long lives, in some cases long enough to see their great-grandchildren. Idris had not even lived to see his only son, Leofric, born.

“What happened to him?” Harry asks. Salah does not react to that immediately; she looks down at her hand.

Before she speaks, she breathes deeply. “He was a surprise. All of our children were, in some way, but he really caught us off guard. I remember telling Helga that I  _ couldn’t _ be with child, that she was being silly. But four months later, there he was—too early, small, frail. I nearly died to bring him into this world.”

In the silence, she looks up. Tears glisten in her eyes. “He was still so young, my baby boy. In Aprilis, he wed Alicia. In Augustus, I told her she must be expecting their first child, that I had seen all the symptoms. And by Ianuarius of the next year, Idris was dead. Alicia gave birth to Leofric in Februarius.”

“You see, he’d gone to the village early in the day, before Alicia woke,” says Salah, “he’d wanted to surprise her. And we’d heard rumours of a magician committing atrocities, but would he dare come to Hugiweard? Not yet, we’d assumed.” She sighs. “That was our mistake. Idris must’ve encountered him. He lost the battle, villagers told us later. We searched for weeks. Rowena worried herself sick over the matter because Alicia came close to birthing their child early…”

Salah rubs her belly, grimacing. “And then he came back. I’d gone to barter for fabrics, and there he was—alive. He cracked a smile at me—fragile, exhausted. Then his eyes went dark and he spoke with someone else’s voice—he tried to kill me. You see,” she says, now turning to Harry, “someone went and placed their twisted little soul in my baby. Whatever happened in those weeks, it broke a magician accomplished in Mind Magic. I had to kill him.”

It comes as a blow, really.  _ It’s not the same _ , Harry thinks,  _ I haven’t been broken. _ But it’s terrible nonetheless, because if he doesn’t manage to separate himself from Voldemort’s soul, what is to become of him?

Salah says, “I killed a part of myself in the process, and I swore I would not rest so long as such vile magic existed. I would not allow it to claim victims again, certainly not to my children, or their children. I most certainly will not let it happen to you.”

“But what if it does?” asks Harry, “What then?”

“We fight to get you back,” says Salah, “because I’m not going to lose you to the same evil that took Idris from me.”

 

***

On Tuesday, Godric returns to the house in a rather annoyed mood. Apparently they’d kept him overnight over a small matter, which he grouses about the entire morning without actually  _ saying _ what it is about until Salah asks directly.

“Oh, Ollivander’s gone and disappeared,” says Godric, “some Death Eaters trashed the place, but the man was a day ahead of them.”

“Good,” says Salah.

“Good?” Draco says, incredulous. “Good? Who will give the first-years their new wands?”

Godric looks at him blankly. “They’ve been owled a specific time and place to go about and test for a new wand. Unlike the Order, I like to be efficient.”

“Oh.” Draco backs down. Harry is too busy eating his helping of mixed fruits to say anything, but he’s perfectly capable of looking between everyone. Draco says, “Is that why you went into the shop?”

“Yes,” says Godric. “I helped him disappear. Dumbledore was not  _ pleased _ that I’d kept the plan from him, but, well, he can’t order me around. He’s also not entirely happy about the elves that are inundating Hogwarts...”

“Well, we have a house…” says Salah.

Godric straightens up, “Sal, darling, I love you, but—”

“Their agreement is with us,” she informs him, as if he doesn’t  _ know _ that. Harry is halfway through his next bite but he stops just so he can watch what unfolds. “They can’t all return to Inbhir Nis; there’s nothing to return to. We have a house, a town, and a lot of fresh magical land. Let them come to Gryposcire.”

“Oh, you see,” Godric says, visibly relieved, “I thought you wanted to put them all in the house. We can take another two, but I do like the idea of letting them build their own home. You’re a genius.”

“I’m glad to see you remember why you married me.”

“Well, there was also the matter of being  _ legally _ allowed between your thighs…”

Harry makes a swift exit with his entire bowl of fruit and a harangued Draco. The back porch is safe enough. Salah and Godric aren’t terrible or anything, but at times they can get oddly specific and Harry would rather they not.

It’s another sunny day, and according to Godric this will last for the remainder of the week. Later in the day, they’re supposed to start on the improved Wolfsbane; Harry has all his notes ready. Godric will oversee most of their work, as Salah is self-banned from any and every fume.

He can hear her giggle all the way here. “Is this what having parents is like?”

Draco blinks. “My parents were never like this.”

Suddenly, Harry wishes he had never spoken. After the first day, Draco hasn’t mentioned his parents at all; he’d only asked after his mother the one time Snape had come over. Harry used to like fantasising about what family life could have been like with his parents—how he’d go flying with his father, how he’d help his mother make dinner, how she may have read him stories before bed, how his father would show him charms, how his mother would tell him about potions. Salah and Godric have taken over all of that and made it  _ real. _

He hasn’t a clue what things must’ve been like for Draco. He can’t imagine it could have all been cold and dark; Draco wouldn’t be as bubbly and colourful otherwise, no matter how he hides it well behind poise and strained elegance. He’s beautiful in a flawed, wispy sort of way. At times, that reminds Harry of Narcissa Malfoy.

“They weren’t always grave and serious, mind,” Draco murmurs. “When I was little, my mother would take me out to the gardens to play around in the dirt, among the flowers. I would terrorise the peacocks and bring mud to ask Dobby to make mudcake.” He smiles. “I can still hear my mother laugh. Sometimes it would be because of things Father said, but mostly she laughed with me…”

_ And your father, _ Harry doesn’t ask. It’s not that he doesn’t want to believe Lucius Malfoy had at some point been a good father, it’s just that Draco seems happy enough to only mention his mother.

So instead, he says, “My aunt and uncle weren’t anything like that either. All of their affection went to Dudley, my cousin. They looked kind of happy on their wedding picture…” There’d only been one. Vernon had been less fat, then, and Dudley looks like he’s a clone of his father. “Seeing Salah and Godric makes me wonder if they ever loved each other, and if they did, what happened to that.”

Draco sighs. “I think my parents fell out of love. Mother certainly did.”

It’s tragic, really, and yet all Harry wants is to hold Draco’s hand and maybe kiss him. It’s entirely the wrong thing for this kind of conversation, because he’s about half-certain he’s falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

He’s still in the middle of that realisation when Wednesday dawns, sunny as promised. He’s officially sixteen years old, not that it feels any different from fifteen or even fourteen. He’s still Harry, and apparently he can have cake right after breakfast.

They’ve decorated the entire dining room with garlands and clusters of violet and gold balloons. It’s all rather pretty, and that’s before Harry sees the cake Winky has gone and baked him, or the breakfast she and Dobby have gone and laboured over.

Salah hugs him the moment she sees him, wishing him an out-of-breath ‘Happy Birthday’. Harry feels a brief kick from the area of her stomach, and they both burst out laughing.

“The baby also wishes you a happy birthday!” says Salah.

Godric’s hug is like being smothered by a very friendly bear. It’s a good hug. Unfortunately, Draco and he are far too awkward to hug, so Draco pats his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, old chap,” he says.

“You’re nearly two months older, old man,” Harry responds.

“At least I age gracefully.”

The cake is red velvet with cheesecake, which is not a combination Harry had expected, but it certainly does taste good. He’s not allowed a second helping until after he’s opened his gifts, which Dobby carries over to him. The first, from Salah and Godric, is a  _ dagger _ in an ornate wooden box engraved with a griffon. The dagger itself is solid, simple. The sheath has a dragon identical to the pen Salah had gifted him.

“Your wand can’t be your only weapon,” says Godric, “but more on that during your actual duelling lessons.” He looks at both boys.

From Draco he receives a book on local legends, which he loves on sight because of the snowy owl sat atop a lonely pole. The index promises a whole host of nice little stories he almost starts reading on the spot, only to realise he’s become Hermione.

Winky and Dobby give him a quilt. It looks like a giant star growing ever outwards in various colours; it’s beautiful. He’s rarely felt this warm before, and it’s not the weather.

“The second half of your gift comes in the afternoon,” says Salah. “Two o’clock sharp, young man.”

Before that he has to sit with her for Spanish, and Draco babysits the potion. Harry has got all the days of the week down and his vocabulary has increased greatly, but that means Salah now speaks to him in Spanish from time to time. It’s painful, mostly because it  _ looks _ simple but it really is not. All the vowels are strange.

And it turns out Spanish has fourteen different ways to conjugate words depending on when something happens in time, and all of them are important to know. He wants to send the entirety of Spain a strongly worded letter.

Instead of moving on to some other subject after Spanish, Harry takes a nap. He then wakes with forty minutes to spare, and arrives at the entrance hall with a few seconds to go. There, he shrugs on a beige suit-jacket over his white shirt and navy pants; nobody had told him to go formal, but it’s his birthday. He can do what he likes.

Godric nods. “That’s the best outfit I’ve seen you put together.”

“Is it Salah-and-Draco approved?” Harry asks, hopeful. The two of them are an absolute  _ menace _ . He’s not allowed out of the house unless he’s properly colour-coordinated, and it’s not like Harry really cares about the difference between navy and midnight blue.

“Certainly,” says Godric. “Luckily for you, they won’t be joining us. Shopping trip,” he adds when Harry’s brows fly up. “Ready?”

Godric Apparates them into a side street of London. Some poor animal startles so badly it knocks over something made of glass, and a man starts yelling about something named ‘Sparky’ causing a right mess.

The Leaky Cauldron is across the street. And entire group waits at the front, and Harry primarily recognises Hermione, her dark hair big and loose. She looks pretty. At her side, Luna nearly crosses the street without looking, but Ginny and Remus hold her back as a car zips by.

“Harry!” says Hermione once he and Godric have crossed the street. “It’s so good to see you! You look—you look good!”

“Very handsome,” says Ginny, a wide grin on her face.

“I thought your hair would be floofy,” Luna says, “like Hermione’s.”

Hermione, for her part, acts as if Luna hasn’t said anything at all. She opens her mouth to speak, but Remus interrupts. “We should move along now,” he says calmly. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Harry has, in fact, missed lunch completely. “There’s a fish and chips place further up. It’s rather good.”

It’s a bit of a walk—to Soho, which isn’t terribly far from Charing Cross Road, but still Harry feels rather sorry for Hermione and her heels even though she looks stunning in them, but she marches on in full confidence. Upon arrival, Godric pulls some tables together. It’s a bit tight; Golden Union is tiny, but they manage.

“So how’ve you been, mate?” asks Ron, once they’re seated and Godric has gone for the orders. “You look well, by the way. All fancied up.”

“Thanks, mate; I got a new wardrobe.” Harry claps Ron on the back. “I’ve been really good, though. I haven’t been kidnapped or anything—” Ron barks out a laugh, “mostly just doing homework and brewing potions and learning Spanish.”

“Really?” says Ginny. “She’s teaching you? Lucky.”

Harry winces. “You wouldn’t think so if you had to conjugate ‘to be’ in Spanish.”

“And they’ve been treating you well?” says Hermione.

“Yeah,” Harry tells her. “Better than the Dursleys ever cared to. I’m allowed to do magic, I have a room that’s  _ mine _ —no bars on them. I even had a birthday cake and presents. They put up garlands. That’s already ten times more than I ever got from my aunt and uncle.”

In fact, it’s a hundred times more. Aunt Petunia probably doesn’t know what to do with all of Dudley’s old clothes now that Harry’s not there to receive them. Harry would advise her to ritually burn them, but he’d also resolutely told Salah he doesn’t ever want to return to Privet Drive number 4.

His exact wording had been more along the lines of, “There are a million things I’d rather do than go back to that fucking place.”

Then Ginny asks, “I’ve heard Draco Malfoy is living with them, too; is that true?” and Harry immediately goes red like a heated lamp in the cold dark.

“Yeah,” says Harry. His voice manages to stay even. “He’s their ward now, to keep him safe from Voldemort. You know, after the…”

For a moment, they’re all somber. They’d come out of the battle relatively unscathed all things considered—physically, anyway. A knot settles in Harry’s stomach; suddenly it’s all near again—the flashes of spells, the pain, Voldemort inside his head, tearing his defences down...

 He changes the subject. “Where’s Neville?”

“At the shop, probably,” says Ron, visibly relieved. “He impressed Fred and George with his knowledge of plants and potions, so he’s helping for the summer.”

That makes their next stop. They pass through the Leaky this time around; Harry waves at Tom for good measure, if only because the man has always been kind. Remus leads the way with Ron and Godric guards their back.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is without a doubt the liveliest place in Diagon Alley—not just in terms of its bright colours. Children drag their parents toward it without care for the worry that seeps through, or the way others scurry about.

WORRIED ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO? YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT U-NO-POO!

Harry takes a moment to blink at the sign. Somewhere behind him, Godric chuckles. THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!

At Harry’s side, Hermione shakes her head. “That’s bound to make some people angry. They should watch out.”

“Oh, I’m sure Death Eaters will have the time of their lives in there,” says Ron. He disappears inside the shop.

“Wasn’t talking about Death Eaters,” Hermione mutters.

It almost seems like something exploded within the shop. So many colours greet them, Harry has to stand at the door absolutely mesmerised and not entirely comprehending what his eyes see. A young girl pushes past him, so he has to move to the side.  _ This was a solid investment. _

The twins have filled the store from floor to ceiling. It’s almost impossible to find them among the crowd or the bright colours, so they find Harry instead. “How’d you like our little gift box?” asks Fred.

“Bloody fantastic,” says Harry. “Winky had to hide it from Salah.”

“I didn’t get a gift box!” says Ron. He’s got hold of  _ Candy in a Can _ . “I’m your brother!”

“And Harry’s an investor,” says George.

Fred explains, “He doesn’t pay here.”

It’s all good and fun until Harry has to  _ choose _ what he wants; it’s all free, so he can’t exactly start at the lowest price or even the highest. He decides instead to begin with Ron’s choices and spread out from there.

Neville appears for a precise five minutes. He’s in the back, brewing something new and secret, and Harry has never seen this happy, excited glint in Neville’s eye.

“The job here was my birthday gift,” says Neville. “Thanks for the book by the way! It’s sad to see all those ancient plants gone, but it gave me an excellent perspective on why old potions were brewed like that. And it’s helping with my work!”

Harry, who has read the original copy of said twice now, can’t really pass up the opportunity. “Did you see the uses for cauldrons? I think Snape may have mentioned it or had us write an essay about it, but I can’t remember ever coming across stone cauldrons. And platinum!”

“I’m using a golden one!” says Neville. “Aspects of the sun, and such. It’s wonderful!”

He takes Harry to the back, past the stores and into a roomy lab. Harry breathes in the scent of lavender and something he would describe as ‘sunshine’, if such a thing ever had a scent. Whatever Neville is brewing, it’s already genius.

Fred then has to come fetch Harry and lightly tap Neville on the nose. “Harry can test the products later.”

They leave the shop half an hour later, with Godric having to drag Hermione out and Remus pulling Ginny along. They’d discovered the WonderWitch branch of the shop, and Harry shudders when they inform him one of the potions is Amortentia.

“We spoke to them about it,” says Godric. “It could very well get their shop investigated.”

“Amortentia isn’t quite illegal,” says Remus. “Which is truly an affront.”

Now that Harry looks, Remus seems...better. He looks healthy, less like he hasn’t eaten in a week, more like he’s been groomed. He smiles at Harry’s narrow-eyed scrutiny, ruffles his hair. Remus finally looks all of thirty-six rather than a greying man going towards his mid-fifties.

Godric leans in. “Salah’s paying him to stay alive and healthy.”

Remus barks out a laugh. “She’s a right bully, but I’ve never felt better.”

By the time Harry returns to Gryposcire, he’s so happy he could burst. By all rights, Sirius should have been there too—his  _ parents _ should have seen him grow and become what he has, but their absence is not painful. Sirius better get well soon. He has to.

“Had a good day?” asks Salah. She’s in the parlour with Draco, having tea. Winky must already be in the kitchen to cook dinner. Godric has disappeared somewhere to the first floor.

Harry grins. “Yeah. Had the most delightful food at Golden Union.”

Her disgust is priceless. “I regret the very second I brought you there. You—traitor to your bloodline. Shame. Dishonour. Eating such bland food.” She says all this as she walks away, her voice going distant. He about hears her say, “Godric, you allowed this sacrilege…” before her voice trails to silence. 

Draco’s shoulders shake so violently, it's a wonder he’s quiet. 

“Did  _ you _ have a good day,” asks Harry. Draco nearly slides off his sofa, but manages to save himself from the disgrace in a timely manner.

“Splendid, thank you,” he says. “Non-magical London has such good taste in clothes. Us magical folk need an update.”

Not in a million years would Harry have expected those words, but then he’d never expected to live happily with a family until well into his thirties, when he perhaps made his own. The rush of affection for Draco has Harry tap his nose, copying Fred from earlier.

“I’m glad you had a good birthday, Harry,” Draco says softly. “I’m glad I get to spend part of it with you.” 

It's all a bit too much, but Harry manages to reign it in. He's curious now, “Did you have a good birthday? When  _ is _ your birthday?” 

To his dismay, Draco grimaces. “Fifth of June. I…” he worries his lip. “I’ve had better.” 

It's not that Harry doesn't remember the bruises or the split lip. Other than his face, Draco had had bruises on his chest, his arms, and it all comes down to the fact that he had stood beside Harry against his own father. 

“I’m sorry, you know?” he says. “I wish I could have kept you safe. I wish you didn't have to—”

Draco shakes his head. “It was my choice. I stand by that choice. I cannot have anyone doubt me on this, least of all you. I've come too far for regret, and I refuse to feel it. Tell me you understand that.”

Of course he does. “Yes. I understand. ”

It helps, somewhat, with the guilt. But Draco is right; this had been his own choice, and it does no good to cast doubt. Draco has gone through an enormous change, and with it had come painful sacrifice. He has survived it and marched on, head held high despite the murky future ahead, and he has not once complained. 

“You’re wonderful, you know?” Harry blurts out.

Draco goes still so abruptly, Harry almost believes him to be petrified. He pushes at Draco’s shoulder with a finger, which takes some maneuvering since he’s a chair away. “Are you still here?”

A sigh. “Potter, you absolute berk,” and before Harry can even formulate a response, Draco has come towards him and—

_ This is a kiss, _ Harry realises, when he’s already in the middle of leaning into it.  _ I’m kissing Draco Malfoy. _

The ridiculousness of it gives way to bliss, because for all the agonising he’d done across several months, kissing Draco turns out to be simple. He just has to pull Draco cloer, lean his head just so—and Draco grabs his neck, and that probably isn’t supposed to make all of Harry’s senses go haywire, but here it is.

Of course Winky chooses that exact moment to pop in. “Dinner is ready, young masters!”

To their credit, neither jumps away. Draco’s head falls on Harry’s shoulder and he curses under his breath. Harry laughs for a bit, because this is his life now.

It's good.


	7. The County

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birds, the bees, and the County of Gryposcire.

Thursday has a smattering of early morning rain. After breakfast, Draco drags Harry up to Harry’s bedroom for a cuddle, which is kind of a first for Harry. Draco dozes off within five minutes, because apparently if he’s comfortable enough he can sleep just about anywhere, and that makes Harry’s feelings do all sort of little happy jumps.

They’ve eased into this so smoothly Harry has to pinch himself to be sure he’s awake. Then he carefully recovers  _ Magicke & Adoptionnes _ from his night table. The spelling’s a bit atrocious but bearable after a few minutes. Salah would probably cry.

It’s an entire hour and three chapters later when Godric knocks on his door. Draco starts awake and half sits, a large red spot where his cheek had rested against Harry’s shoulder. Harry nearly drops the tome on his chest.

“Well, I didn’t mean to do that,” says Godric, amused. “I just wondered if you boys would like to go flying.”

A sudden craving overcomes Harry—to feel the wind, to gaze below and see the house and the town tiny in the distance. He lays a quick kiss on Draco’s nose before they set off to gather their brooms.

Salah greets them out on the porch, where she has donned a swimming suit and sits out in the sun. She has a large, flowery hat and sunglasses to ward off what little sun makes it through. Winky brings her a colourful beverage with a little umbrella. They wave at the boys.

“Be good,” says Godric. He leans over to kiss Salah on the lips.

Draco, now far more awake than initially dusts off his robes. “Don’t have kittens while we’re gone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Salah.

Their little trio is up and away seconds later. Without the carriage in the way, Harry can see Gryposcire better; it’s very green, with one lake to the east. Griffon’s Door manor is somehow just off the centre of it all—  

“The Door is at the very centre,” Godric calls out to them. He’s a bit ahead, and now points to the town. From here, they can almost see the townsfolk walk about. If anyone were to look up, they’d likely see what may seem like still-flying birds among the spotless white clouds.

Harry turns to look at Draco. Unlike him, Draco has not tied his hair back, and his curls now shift breezily with the wind. He is perfect.

For all that Gryposcire seems comprised of only the Door and one town, the land is large. Many towns had gone under, Godric tells them. They see them far below, skeletons of once thriving bodies. The people had moved away and mingled in other counties, but Godric had not allowed his lands to shrink.

“But where are we exactly?” asks Draco. “In the north, but…”

“We’re hidden,” says Godric. “The only people who know our exact location are Salah, Winky, Dobby and I.”

“Because you’re tied to the land,” Harry concludes. He’d read something about it earlier; anyone adopted into the family will also gain awareness of their land. Godric can feel the very edges of Gryposcire, would be alerted of danger, knows exactly how many people live here, feels their births and their deaths.

“Correct,” Godric says. “I’ve felt the population shrink. Now it’s only growing.”

He’s also always aware of Salah’s Andalusian march, as it turns out. That one’s bigger and unhidden, currently under supervision of the king until Salah returns.

“Sal and I actually hadn’t seen each other for a while when Tom Riddle christened himself Voldemort,” Godric tells them as they float above town. “I believe we parted in 1939 to deal with the Second World War. Then we briefly met in 1946. In-between, we sent letters and such. Then along came Death Eaters, and before we knew, we were forming a network of resistance.”

The wind carries them gently about until Harry challenges Draco to a race. Godric oversees it from higher above, and when the boys set off with whoops of laughter, he follows. Harry is just the bit faster, always has been. He leads Draco into twists and turns, twirling in the air as if to make a show of it.

They have to swerve away from the county limits. It comes upon them rather abruptly, but they’re too skilled to crash now, and before they know it they’re tumbling off towards Griffon’s Door.

Godric lands first and catches Harry as he comes crashing down, laughing. Draco vaults off his broom and rolls in the grass. He lays on his back, grinning wide.

“Refreshments?” Salah asks from where she lounges. She holds an entire can of lemonade, and if they’re not quick she might drink the whole thing.

It’s a cool afternoon, for all that the sun tries to fry them. They have lunch on the grass, like heathens, as Draco puts it. Harry suggests lunch at the lake for some other time, perhaps even tomorrow, when the Wolfsbane doesn’t require too much supervision.

“Oh, Dobby came by,” says Salah after a while. “The Elves that have not gone to Inbhir Nis have agreed to come to Gryposcire. In fact, they are delighted and will be here on the twelfth of August.”

“Winky will ferry them,” says Winky proudly. “They is being sworn to secrecy!”

Godric raises his glass. “To efficiency.”

 

***

It’s well into the afternoon, when they’ve made sure the potion is steaming gently, that Draco takes Harry upstairs. They turn immediately right instead of left, away from their bedrooms. On this side, directly opposite the tree room, Draco opens the door the a room full of paintings.

Portraits, Harry has to correct soon after. The only landscape sits outside the large windows opposite the wall to the left.

“I’ve come here at least once every day since I discovered them,” says Draco.

Three paintings stare down at them. Harry almost recognises their faces, a strange amalgamation of features shared among them. It’s the names that give them away—Godiva, Amat, and Idris. Of the three, only Idris sleeps, and Harry’s heart nearly stops when he looks at that strange brown face, the unruly hair somehow styled into neatness.

“Hello,” says Amat. “We weren’t sure we’d ever meet you.”

Godiva snorts. “Of course we would. Mother would never deny us the pleasure.” Her hair is bright red and her eyes hazel. Godiva’s hair curls in several directions, and she seems to not care much for how it looks. She seems almost unruly and wild against her sister’s polished appearance, as if she were the fae to Amat’s princess.

“You’ll have to forgive our brother,” says Amat. If her hair had been short and her complexion a touch darker, she would have been Salah’s twin. “He has spells of intense boredom.”

They have to wait for Godiva to hiss at Idris to wake. He cracks one sleepy eye open—green, like Godric’s, to Harry’s utter shock. Idris blinks awake, hisses at Godiva to shut up.

They’d all still been rather young when they had been painted; Idris is just shy of seventeen. Harry has a hard time looking at him, so he settles for Godiva, who is easy on the eyes, like the sun.

“We’re very pleased to meet you, Harry,” says Amat. “Draco has spent many a day pining here with us, and would not listen to our advice.”

“I do not pine,” says Draco. “And as you can see, I’ve brought him. He’s my boyfriend now.”

“Are we?” says Harry. “Boyfriends, that is.” It’s not like they’ve spoken about it, given voice to what’s just started between them. It’s almost too soft for words, sweet like the candy floss that had sent Draco on a sugar high.

“Of course we are,” says Draco. Then, softly, “If you want to be.”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Of course.”

“My teeth rot,” says Idris. He sounds like Godric, to Harry’s relief. “Congratulations on your courtship.”

“Oh, dear brother,” says Amat, giggling. “Courtships are entirely out of fashion. It’s called dating now.”

Idris rolls his eyes. “The difference being?”

As the two younger siblings bicker, Godiva bids the boys take seat. She’s more keen on telling them more about Hogwarts in her time, where she grew up on the fields and in the forest, unforbidden.  _ Hugiweard _ , she calls the castle, a name now forgotten but for the one time Salah had named it to Harry. It seems like a different world entirely, coming from Godiva’s mouth.

“Godiva the Red Flame they called me,” she says. “I stayed to look after the Door, when mother and father left for Andalusia. Amat became Headmistress, and Idris would have taken the Emerald March…”

At the mention of their names, her siblings stop glaring at each other. Amat beams at them like a pleased little flower. Idris gives a smile with all of Godric’s slightly crooked teeth, and it’s the first time Harry can look at him without an impending heart attack.

“Alicia moved there, when Leofric survived his first year,” says Idris. “He would sit under my painting and babble about his day. And when he grew, he would come to me with his worry as well as his happiness.”

There is a wistful sort of look about him. Harry feels a pang of sympathy; Idris had never truly known his son, nor had Leofric truly known all of his father. The paintings offer some sort of middle ground, something moving pictures haven’t really done for Harry.

“Do you think they’ll paint our baby sister?” Amat asks Godiva. “Portraits like ours are not fashionable anymore, but I would love to see her here.”

“I hope you haven’t told mother she’s carrying a girl,” Godiva says warningly.

“I told father…”

The bickering starts anew, this time in Spanish interspersed with Parseltongue. Draco waves them goodbye; Idris responds in kind, a wry smile on his face. They hurry downstairs; Godric already waits in the cellar, prodding at the potion as if it were the most annoying thing ever.

He’s not entirely surprised when Harry blurts out that they’ve met his children. “We’ve told those busybodies that they can wander about in the other paintings, not that they’ve listened. I suppose now they’ve met you, they’ll take it as their cue.”

It’s like Godric is some sort of prophet.

More than once, Harry spots Godiva chasing Idris in the painting above the hearth. When she catches him, he’s subjected to a round of tickling—then it’s Godiva’s turn to be chased about, her long legs taking her further and further. Amat sits idly under a tree or is otherwise petting the white cat in Salah’s study. Kittens join in a day after, and Harry has never seen a happier painting.

She’s not so happy with his Spanish. Her eyes widen minutely as a warning when Harry is about to thoroughly butcher the word ‘apasionado’.

“I don’t have to lisp, do I?” It’s not exactly lisping, but it’s close enough to make Harry cry. Salah has explained time and again that it’s  _ not _ lisping but he doesn’t believe her on account of her being from the nation that spawned this awfulness.

“It’s called ceceo,” she says, “and no. I’m not that ridiculous.”

“We’re from the east, after all,” Amat says proudly. “Of Andalusia, that is. Though the south-west does like their ceceo…”

Harry tries once more, this time succeeding. Amat looks down at him with pride, which settles that for him.

“Now hop along, youngling,” says Amat, “Father wishes to speak to you.”

He finds Godric out in the garden, a confused Draco at his side. The moment Harry steps in their line of sight, Godric ushers the boys back inside, to the parlour. There his three griffons await eagerly in the painting before Godric shushes them away. Draco casts Harry a nervous look, but it’s not like Harry knows what to expect.

In retrospect, he should have expected something like this.

“Now,” says Godric, “it’s come to my attention you boys have entered a courtship,” a giggle draws his eye to the painting, where Amat peeks from behind Idris. “Go  _ away _ , you nosy fiends. I’m trying to be a parent.”

“And you said you were rusty,” says Idris.

“Just go away.” He turns back to Harry and Draco. Harry doesn’t even dare look anywhere but his hands or possibly the ground, begging for it to just swallow him up. “I’m glad the two of you have worked things out, because all the staring and lovesick eyes were giving me several as of yet undiscovered medical issues.”

“That’s unfortunate,” says Draco, in a return to his previous, haughty self, “but why are we here?”

Godric chuckles. “You’re here because this is my house and you are my wards.” Draco shifts in his seat, his calve touching Harry’s. “But, more importantly, we are here to see what you two knows of sex and how to engage in it safely.”

If the ground does not swallow Harry now, he will absolutely die on the spot.

What follows is an excruciating hour in which Godric explains, thankfully without graphic detail, the various ways two men can go about having sex, the numerous diseases they could get if they’re not careful, and the ways to protect themselves.

“Your education should have covered some of this,” he says, utterly calm and not at all like this is all awkward and embarrassing. Harry supposes that’s what comes with time, experience, and three children. “However, Hogwarts has also failed you in this regard, so I must cover everything here.”

‘Everything’ also includes contraceptives, magical and non-magical. Draco opens his mouth, probably to ask the very question that has occured to Harry:  _ why would we need to use birth control _ , but Godric is quicker.

“Now, for one, you may not stay with each other,” he says. “You may also wish to try out many things, too numerous to recount here. So it’s important you know all of the spells, regardless of who you sleep with.”

They have to recite all the spells. Godric even has them take notes just to be sure they won’t easily forget, not that Harry will forget this moment, forever burnt into his brain. Fortunately, that’s the end of it.

Draco and he can’t even look at each other after that, and they split to hide away in their own rooms. It’s not that Harry hasn’t thought about it; he has gotten off on the thought of Draco more times than he ever dares say. There’s just something majestically uncomfortable in having an adult talk about it so plainly.

He’s out of his room and the house before he knows it, broom in hand. He still has the grace to alert Winky that he’s gone flying; he doesn’t want anyone to go in a panic over him, especially not Salah.

It’s not until he’s kicked off, the wind in his hair, that Harry feels like himself again. The sun is warm on his back, hanging lower. It’ll be suppertime when he’s back home—home.

Hogwarts used to be his home, when Privet Drive had been hollow, deprived of warmth and affection. The Burrow had been full—things, people, magic. Here though—Griffon’s Door; it’s settled in his bones. That had sneaked up on him, gotten through his defences, but it’s still safe. It’s home, and it contains his family.

The sky is near orange. If Harry let’s it all take him over, he imagines he can feel all of Gryposcire at once, this place full of wonder and love. He flies in zigzags and circles, watches the sun as afternoon becomes dusk.

Then Griffon’s Door is below, and Harry lands in a spiral. The sun hides between the trees that hold the Door, and if Harry could sing, he would.

He laughs instead

 

***

Sometime before bed, Draco knocks on Harry’s door. They hadn’t sat next to each other for dinner, nor had they quite looked at each other. Salah had rolled her eyes at least once, but if Godric had noticed anything amiss, he had said nothing at all.

Harry’s cheeks betray him the moment he meets Draco’s eyes. He tries to jam his hands into his pockets, except his pyjama bottoms don’t have pockets so he just looks the fool that he is. It’s a miracle Draco had ever liked him.

He must’ve said that out loud. Draco says, “Don’t be ridiculous; I’ve had a crush on you since first year.”

“That long?” says Harry. In comparison, his own crush is a fleeting thing, an unsteady newborn learning to run.

Draco snorts. “I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since you walked into the parlour downstairs, entirely too handsome and still awkward. Long before that, too, but that first moment in this house was a rather defining moment in my sexuality.”

If one could choke on spit, their name would be Harry James Potter. As is, he manages to speak. “It’s good you finally did, then.” He holds out his hand, Draco takes it. Harry would dance with Draco if he could, but that’s a skill for another day. Today is a day for deep kisses, the kind Harry has come to know leave Draco weak in the knees.

They fall unto the bed, legs tangled. It could go further, but Godric’s voice is still too near, so it ends in giggles and a sense of relief that they’ve returned to this.

“I do want to, you know,” Harry tells Draco. And then, awkward, because the words are all tangled, “Have sex with you. It’s just...”

“Weird,” Draco supplies. It’s almost a complaint. “He went and made it weird.”

But that’s all right for now. They can look at each other and smile, their fingers twining. Harry can kiss Draco’s nose and his lips and his cheekbones, sure in the thought that all this sweetness is his to enjoy.

They fall asleep like that. It’s a bit strange, different from cuddling. Tomorrow is another day, and in Harry’s dreams they fly together, ever higher before they dive down. It’s like a dance, if you could achieve that gracefulness in the sky.

It’s a lot colder when he wakes, and Draco clings to him. They hadn’t used the blanket, which Harry now regrets because his feet are cold and they’re good at complaints.

For the longest time, he stares at Draco, at how young and boyish he looks asleep. His lashes are blue in this nightly light, cast long shadows on his cheeks. Harry shouldn’t be awake, but here he is, and he enjoys Draco’s visage a moment longer before he’s fully awake, alert. Someone is in the house; they shouldn’t be.

In untangling from Draco, Harry instead jostles him awake. This is an enormous feat considering it takes a horde of elephants shrieking to wake Draco from his slumber.

“Harry, what the fuck,” is the eloquent reaction.

“Someone’s in the house,” is all Harry has to offer before he’s out of his room.

To Draco’s credit, he’s on Harry’s heels in a second. Both their wands are ready. The intruder is in the parlour, and Harry curses the fact that he’d not thought of his glasses; in the dark, he’s blinder than a bat without echolocation. He should perhaps invest in the skill just to save him the pain of stubbing his toe, which he does immediately upon entering the room.

Draco, bless him, saves the day. “Sev?”

As they shuffle closer, hearts no longer hammering, Harry can make out some key features—pale face, dark eyes, chin-length black hair. It’s the exhaustion and this exact shade of pallor that are new.

“Are you all right, professor?” asks Harry. The man looks like death warmed over.

Snape looks at him as if he’s an absolute idiot. “Your concern is noted, Potter.”

A moment later Godric comes rushing down the stairs and into the parlour. Salah follows at a moderate pace; she ties a robe around herself, not that it does anything to hide her now obvious pregnancy. Snape stares at her.

She says, “Are you all right?”

Annoyed, Snape rolls his eyes. “The concern is, once again, noted.”

“Well, I’m not sorry for cari—”

Godric sighs. “We’re glad you’re alive, ghostly though you appear.” He’s not wrong, even for Snape’s doing, he looks pale. “What brings you here?”

A sharp inhale. “Albus is dying.”


	8. The Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of haunting tales and an inheritance. Death spares none.
> 
> a.k.a. Harry has a few difficult moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is hotter than Satan's two ass-cheeks pressed together and I almost contracted a migraine from going out to do groceries the Earth is DYING we never deserved h

“I’m sorry,” says Harry, “he’s  _ what?” _

In another world, one that makes sense, Severus Snape would probably mock him for being hard of hearing. In this world, the one in which things absolutely have stopped making any sense whatsoever, he does not.

Instead, Snape stares at Salah. She says, “What in God’s name has the old man gone and done now?”

“Put on a cursed ring,” Snape drawls.

Godric huffs. “You’d think a wizard of his calibre would know better.”

Snape bows his head in concession. “He was tempted.”

He shows them a stone. It’s smooth except for the scratches—a triangle, circle and vertical line. Harry frowns at them; the symbol means nothing to him, but Draco gasps when he sees it, so it  _ does _ mean something, and it had been enough to trick Albus Dumbledore, wizard extraordinaire, to put on a cursed ring.

Salah takes it in her hand. The rest of her body seems to lean away, and she quickly hands it to Godric. “Where did he get this?”

“Marvolo Gaunt’s ring,” Snape states. Harry jerks his head from the stone in Godric’s hand back to his Potions professor, because he  _ knows _ that name, he’s seen it before, written on the wall, on a leaf in the—

“Voldemort’s grandfather,” he says.

“Uh,” says Draco, “why did Voldemort’s grandfather have a Deathly Hallow in his possession?”

“The same reason Harry has Death’s invisibility cloak,” says Godric. “Inheritance.”

“My what?” says Harry. “It’s what now?”

But neither of them give him any more attention. Snape tells them, “The ring was a horcrux. I take it that’s two destroyed?” At Salah’s nod, he continues, “The Dark Lord seems unaware of the destruction, which works in our favour. I assume you can safeguard this…”

“Resurrection Stone,” Draco whispers.

“We will keep it,” says Salah. “I’m not sure if we can return it to its owner, but they’ve been looking for the Hallows…”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “I will not ask how you know such things. I will leave now.”

He’s at the hearth before anyone else can move. Godric calls out, “Take care!” and a moment later, Severus Snape is gone from the parlour. Salah turns on her heel to look at Godric, whose face has gone entirely blank.

“Can you explain the bit about my cloak now?” Harry says loudly.

It’s Draco who speaks up. “The Peverell brothers travelled at twilight and came across a river.” He sounds almost haunted. “Too dangerous to cross, they instead devised a bridge, and so crossed it. On the other side stood Death. Most travellers drown at the river, attempting to swim across. Death, cunning, congratulated the brothers three, offering gifts for their wit.”

Here Draco briefly stops. He seeks pen and paper, and draws as he says, “Antioch asked for the most powerful wand. Death broke a branch off an elder tree and offered his gift. Cadmus, to humiliate Death further, asked for the power to return a loved one from the dead. From the riverbed, Death drew a stone, so powerful it could return a loved one to the living world. Then came Ignotus,” and Draco looks at Harry, who knows very well which Peverell brother he descends from, “humble and mistrusting Death. He asked that he may return to the other side of the river without Death as his shadow. And so Death gave Ignotus his cloak.”

Harry feels a chill. His cloak had just been a cloak, and yet…

“Most cloaks lose power over the years,” says Salah. “This one did not. Ignotus was wise and lived on. His brothers did not.”

Godric heaves a sigh. “It’s a fancy little story, mostly true. They tell you Antioch died that very night, bragging as he did about his powerful new wand. Someone slit his throat. Cadmus tried to bring his fiance back, and then hung himself.”

“And Ignotus grew old, only then laying down the cloak and greeting Death as a friend,” says Draco. “My mother told me that.” He holds up his drawing, an exact replica of the symbol on the stone.

“So,” says Harry, “My cloak…”

“Belongs to none other than Death,” says Salah.

“We  _ were _ intending to introduce you to the tale,” says Godric. “No reason to keep it from you. Of course, Dumbledore had to go find the stone first. I wish the thing had gotten lost in some river or other.”

“It does have a way of finding itself back in people’s hands,” Salah mutters. “Cursed thing. And to reside for years in Marvolo’s ring! The fool probably didn’t even know what it was, and we’re all the better for it.”

It’s all a bit much, and then Draco has to go and say, “Isn’t the one who can collect all three Hallows supposed to become the Master of Death?”

Salah laughs. “You really think Death would allow such a thing? Why do you think Antioch had his throat slit the very night he had the wand? The Deathly Hallows are cursed in the hands of mortals.”

“But you’re not mortals,” Draco argues shrewdly. “You could—”

“We could not,” Godric says sharply. “That the stone has returned to our line is enough. I will not suffer the thought of possessing these items unless I must be the one to return them to their originator. But before then,” he tosses the stone to Harry.

It’s a credit to Harry’s Seeker reflexes that the stone doesn’t clatter unto the ground. The stone warms in his hand, but it still feels too chilled to be normal. Salah grabs Draco by the hand and pulls him out the room.

Before he leaves, Godric says, “Turn it thrice in your palm.”

The stone is smooth. If it were not for the symbol, it would almost be an innocuous pebble at the edge of a lake or at the bottom of a river. It’s not, though.

He trudges up the stairs, intending to go to his room. Instead his feet send him to the room of portraits, where the siblings prod each other awake. Godiva looks down at him with solemn grace; she must know too well what her line has wrought

“That sort of thing is private,” Idris murmurs. “Are you sure…?”

Harry nods. Thrice in his palm, he turns the stone.

At first, there is nothing. In the next inhalation, it’s like ghosts are pulled from somewhere else, and his parents are there. They smell like lavender and dusk, and a weird sensation settles there, as Harry stares at their faces. They’d never been real, not even when they had emerged from Voldemort’s wand.

“Oh, Harry,” says his mother. She leans over to kiss his forehead. He can  _ feel  _ it, the press of her lips, and the lavender scent is all her. It’s her.

His father cups his face. It’s a light touch, loving for all that it is ghostly. “We’re proud of you, baby boy. I’m sorry you have had to do so much alone.”

Harry isn’t even surprised anymore that he cries. It all comes naturally now, and it’s such a relief to hear these words, full of guilt and regret. He had been loved.

He can hug them now, only this once. Lily hums a lullaby that Harry remembers, somehow, pressed against her chest sleepily. He’d been too little to understand, then, but he had known in every fiber of his being that mum loved him, and dad did too, with all his silly faces and his concern when Harry fell off the baby broom.

They’ve watched over him, of course. “I don’t know  _ why _ Dumbledore had thought to leave you with Tuney,” says Lily. “She’s been horrible to you. You should have gone to Sirius, at least. But it’s good you’re with family now,  _ real _ family…”

There’s too much to discuss and so little time. James can’t tell his son all the things he should know, about his family, about how much his grandparents had adored their infant grandson. How they’d bought him a cot and his very own teddy bear. How James had lost Harry under the invisibility cloak until Harry had cried of hunger and fear. How then they hadn’t used the cloak until they’d had to flee.

As they’re fading, silver tears on their cheeks, Lily says, “Tell Sev I forgave him long ago. And that he is an enormous fool for making such a heavy vow to me.”

They blur. Harry is left with the paintings, and he is glad he’d come here, because he can’t be alone with this. He would run to Salah and Godric if he could, and perhaps tomorrow he’ll ask them for some time together, because he feels his heart has been torn in half.

“Go now, youngling,” Godiva says softly. “Leave the stone here. Mother will come collect it in the morning.”

It’s easier to divest himself of the cursed thing than Harry would have imagined. This is a chance he would take again, but it’s not one he would live twice.

Draco waits for him on the bed. He’s a blessing, and Harry tells him so.

“I try my best,” says Draco. He hugs Harry close, and they lay like that, awake. Draco is warm, safe, known.

In all honesty, Harry does not want to stay awake. Nose to nose with Draco, he can see the other boy’s luminous grey eyes, and he wishes to get lost in them, perhaps even dream of them as they crinkle in laughter. Something in Harry, raw, too recently touched, balks at the idea of sleep.

At long last, Harry whispers, “I spoke to them. My parents.”

Draco says nothing. He swallows and waits, looking back into Harry’s eyes with all the patience in the world. Not for the first time, Harry is glad for this, for the chance to know what it’s like to be held and accepted.

So he tells Draco everything he remembers. 

 

***

In the morning, he composes a letter to Snape. The letter to Mrs Weasley stares at him from where he’s left it, barely a sentence written. This new letter seems more important now, because his mother had asked him to. His own ill feeling towards Snape has melted away into curiosity;  _ what vow? _

The remainder of the day he spends with Draco. The cellar is quiet but for the bubbling of the cauldron. It seems a lifetime away since Salah had first instructed them to work on it, and her specifications are so brilliant, Harry will have to ask how she even came upon them.  _ Fresh aconite, last moon, moonstone powder thereafter _ is perhaps his favourite. Scribbled at the very bottom in someone else’s handwriting:  _ moonstone pendant to soothe wolf. _

“Oh,” says Salah when she turns up in the kitchen. “Amat wrote that. She became rather fond of the stone as a child, and then fate would have her be bitten.”

So Harry picks Amat’s brain that day, as she had not only composed the potion, but had distributed it to those in need. This time she’s in Godric’s study and sits at a lake in moonlight. She looks soft there, shining with the iridescence of her earrings and necklace.

“You’ve lain it in thick,” Harry says, grinning.

“I am basking in it,” she responds. “I was a lovely black wolf and I love it. My children would ask me to pet the wolf all the time, you know. I only did it once a week, of course; that sort of thing is taxing.”

“Once a week?” Harry frowns. “Aren’t you only supposed to transform at a full moon.”

“My, my,” she says, turning away from her beloved moon. “Father did not jest when he said your education is sorely lacking. A were in full control of their faculties can turn at any time they please. It’s easier when the moon is at its fullest. To keep the wolf hidden so much is to make it unhappy, and eventually it becomes painful.”

“Huh,” says Harry, “I know someone you should talk to.”

In the half hour he spends with Amat, he learns more about werecreatures than he ever thought possible. Amat had hosted many tea parties with werecats, werebats, wereleopards—creatures from all over the world. It’s not quite a gift, she tells him, but only a curse to those who reject it.

“Of course, I had an enormous appetite all the time,” she says, grinning. “My wife used to say I would devour an entire boar if I could. They  _ are _ rather tasty.”

Salah comes find him. She’s barefoot and in a summer dress that fits snuggly just above her belly. Harry wants to pat it, which she tolerates with a blank look on her face.

“[Te ves preciosa, mamá,](-)” says Amat.

“[Lo se, querida](-),” says Salah. “[Espero que a nadie se le ocurre que tengo que ponerme zapatos.](-)”

In his head, Harry only half-translates it, because something wonderful has just occured. “She kicked! I felt her kick!”

“It could be a boy, you know?” says Salah. “Or neither. I await a healthy baby.”

That untimely reveal dodged, Amat makes her speedy retreat. “I’m to visit one Remus Lupin,” she tells Salah. “I must be having strong words with him!”

Salah looks down at Harry, who is still feeling little footies against his hand. That last one may have been a knee, though. She says, “Did you arrange that?” At his grin, she says, “Good lad.”

It’s time to go visit Sirius at hospital, not that Harry is looking forward to that brand of gloom at the moment. The Healers have made no headway in regards to repairing the damage done to him, but at least now he’s out of stasis and they’re  _ trying. _

If Godric didn’t stop her, Salah would have left the house barefoot. She almost departs in socks alone just to spite him; apparently she dislikes flat shoes and has to be bribed with sweets and a foot massage to walk in them.

By then Salah has thrown on a light coat that hides her pregnancy. Her now weekly appointment with her doctor had gone well according to Godric and Winky. On the walk to the hospital, Salah details all the changes to her diet and the many vitamins and minerals being pumped into her system so that she can safely give birth to a healthy child.

“But is the  baby on schedule,” asks Draco. They stand before the hideous mannequin as Godric announces them. It’s the first time Draco has tagged along, but by his indifference to the dummy, Harry supposes it can’t be the first time Draco’s been to St. Mungo’s.

“She better be,” says Salah. “Tardiness is also allowed. My griffons like to arrive early, and this is the one event where they shouldn't.”

“Who told you it's a girl?” says Godric. Salah disappears into St. Mungo’s, where she waits for them by the receptionist. The lady, of the surname Milano, nods for them to continue on. 

“All of you are very terrible at keeping quiet about it,” says Salah. She hooks her arm around Godric’s. “Then again, the baby gets to decide their gender. But for now ‘she’ will do nicely.”

The divider curtain is drawn for the Longbottoms when they arrive. Harry settles in to listen to Salah explain the changes—he’d been right; there’s not many. They’ve just taken him out of stasis, but he does not respond to their treatment. As this has been the state of affairs ever since Sirius had first come here, Harry feels unruffled, if tired.

Godric manages to slip behind the curtain. Harry doesn’t pay much mind; Godric’s interest in the Longbottoms is a mystery he’s gotten used to. Draco, because this his first outing to this ward, cranes his neck to see if he can watch what Godric does. Salah wacks him upside the head with the clipboard.

“Privacy,” she warns before Draco can make any noise of protest.

A moment later, Neville comes to them. Harry greets him with a smile, and Draco does his best not to absolutely gape, which quickly turns to an awkward wave.

“My other baby boy,” says Salah. She hugs Neville close, and it would be hilarious if Harry didn’t know how good her squeezy hugs are. “How are you? Are the horror twins treating you well? I won’t hesitate to send a strongly worded letter.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Neville bats her hands away. “Not so loud, all right? I haven’t told gran about the…” He turns bright red, his arms flailing in a vague gesture.

Harry suddenly remembers how fondly Fred had tapped Neville’s nose, and thinks,  _ oh. _

“Well, she can’t disapprove,” Draco says haughtily. “Fred and George Weasley have made a name for themselves, and I hear the money’s good.”

“Besides, triads are rare these days,” Salah continues, as if she cannot at all see the embarrassment on Neville’s face. Harry empathises strongly. “You know, back in our day, polyamory was more common. Things got rather lively when Helga dated Agnessa and Inez, and they were very happy when they married each other.”

Neville blinks rapidly. “Helga Hufflepuff was in a…”

“Yes,” Salah says easily. “They were rather lovely. We should have a painting somewhere...”

“How did you even know about the twins and I?” Neville says, cheeks still red. “We’ve only just…”

Salah’s eyebrow goes up. “What, you think I can’t sense your influence on their products? Wonderful things, by the way. Besides, I noticed their interest earlier in the year.”

Less red now, Neville nods slowly. For his part, Harry feels like an utter dunce; he hadn’t seen anything at all, nor had he bothered to ask Neville who he was interested in. He’d rather been under the impression that Neville is more into plants than people, not that that necessarily precludes a relationship…

“Gran hasn’t noticed,” Neville says, glumly. “She’s too busy being proud of me for fighting at the Ministry...says I’m just like my mum ‘n dad…” Neville sighs. “She’ll like to meet you, I think. To thank you for getting us out of there.”

Draco perks up. “How  _ did _ you get us out of the Department of Mysteries? You never did bother to explain.”

“It’s a trick most Unspeakables know,” Salah tells them. “It’s...I’d only been there once before, but Godric showed me then what to do, in case of an emergency. Since I’m not actually employed there, I had to leave a small...a residue of my magical signature in the first room, and then pull it towards me to disrupt the spell.”

“So, it pulled us through...all of the rooms?” Neville asks, frowning. Salah beams at him, but he doesn’t seem so certain that is a  _ good _ thing, which is a sentiment Harry shares.

“The Ministry’s bound to be overjoyed to learn you can do that,” Draco remarks drily.

“Shhh.”

It’s about then that Godric emerges from behind the curtain. A moment later, Madam Longbottom follows, which makes Neville startle upright. Salah lets him go easily, not that she seems happy with how tense Neville now is.

“I will think on what we have discussed, Count Oswin,” says Madam Longbottom. Opposite to Neville’s prediction, she does not spare even a glance at Salah, who simply side-eyes the elder lady as if she were viewing a reptile. “Come now, Neville. We must not dally.”

They depart as they always seem to, with Neville trailing behind. This time, his mother does not come to give him a parting gift, and there’s some sad about that.

“Count Oswin?” says Draco.

Godric snorts. “I had to improvise. She’s a nosy woman.”

Harry does his utter best not to but it’s too late. He’s grinning. “Bold choice of words.”

“And I stand by them.”

They go for dinner in another part of London—an expensive part. Godric has apparently had this reservation ready for six months, and the addition of two teenagers seems to be a bit of an issue until Salah glibly reminds them whose money will pay for all of it.

They’re seated in the most posh area Harry has ever seen. There’s a very modern, very angular chandelier, not that they  _ need _ the light, given that they end up seated near the large glass windows.

“What’s the occasion,” asks Draco. He’s just ordered  _ wine _ , though Harry prefers to start with something less likely to make him woozy.

“Initially, I just wanted to treat my wife,” says Godric. “These are trying times after all. Now, I suppose I want to treat all of you.”

As far as family dinners go, this is the second one that will stick to Harry’s memory like a beacon. Salah and Godric look at each other as if they are the center of each other’s universe, and not a single doubt rests in Harry’s mind that they would walk together to the end of the world and back.

_ I would like that _ , he thinks, and looks at Draco. His boyfriend— _ boyfriend! _ —is occupied regaling their hosts with a tale of when he was a cute little pale dragon and had loved to hide between his mother’s skirts. Narcissa would then pretend she had lost sight of Draco, asking the elves if they had seen him, despairing entirely when they all giggled and shook their heads. Draco would jump out and announce he’d been there all along and his mother would kiss all of his little face.

“Godiva did something similar,” says Godric, “except she would hide in Rowena’s skirts and instruct Rowena to tell Salah she had disappeared. When Idris was born, she’d carry him about covered in one of Helga’s enormous hats and pretend it had swallowed him. Amat and Idris both  _ loved  _ it.”

Salah laughs. “They did scare me once. It was a terribly huge hat, and Idris fell asleep. Even they were scared he’d stopped breathing. After that, he grew too big for Godiva to carry around.”

After all Harry’s recent experience with his new family, he still can’t believe how candid they are. He’d certainly never thought about a small Draco, but it’s easy enough to imagine it now. It’s easy to see the founders surrounded by mischievous, happy children, with tricks and magic and giggles.

For a moment, he can feel his mother’s touch—remembered from when the stone had made her appear. Somehow, she and his dad linger, and Harry begins to understand their love and devotion.

 

***

It’s not so much that Harry wakes but that he barely sleeps. He dozes off in Draco’s arms, and then opens his eyes to sharp wakefulness. And it’s not so much that he doesn’t want to sleep, perchance to dream, but that he can’t.

He goes for a glass of water, intending to maybe sit out on the porch. Quiet as the house is, it still breathes with life, and nothing of it is magic; people live here, and that fills the walls with life. Harry has been here long enough that he can find his way around blind. He just doesn’t expect Godric to be out on the porch.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs. Godric looks up and gives a nod, smiling. His hands are busy with a needle-like stick, moving in and out and in and out of loops.

“It’s a blanket,” says Godric, voice soft. “It’s still a while before the baby’s here, but idle hands…”

Under the light of the moon and stars, the blanket seems to be a light blue that changes into various other colours, soft and pale. In the few minutes Harry watches in mesmerised silence, Godric works four rows, nimble fingers making quick work.

“I only started an hour ago,” Godric says. “What’s got you out of bed?”

“Dunno,” says Harry. “I woke up. Sometimes I just don’t sleep. What about you?”

Godric grimaces. “Insomnia,” he says. “Depression. Take your pick. Usually I would take a walk and leave the crocheting for during the day, but Sal’s already asleep.”

_ Depression. _ Something about it makes Harry still for a moment. People don’t usually talk about mental illness, certainly not as casually as Godric just had. Sometimes the difference between this and Harry’s time at the Dursley’s that it’s staggering.

It’s probably rude to ask. “Why are you depressed?”

For a few seconds, Godric puts down his work and looks over Harry—no legilimency involved, just a pensive, considering look. “There’s not really a  _ reason _ ,” he explains. “It has a cause, certainly, but sometimes I am just sad and exhausted, so I take walks to dispel it before it comes to an inability to leave my bed.”

It’s familiar, but different. Harry hadn’t exactly wanted to leave his bed in the first week after fourth year, not with how his mind had wandered back to Cedric, to the green light, to the cemetery. He’d barely eaten.

“Now the cause,” Godric continues, now back to his work. He doesn’t look at Harry at all. “The cause is shame. It’s despair, to a certain extent. Some things I can’t change, like being kidnapped at a mere ten years of age.” Godric sighs. “Kidnapped, imprisoned, tortured. Five years of my life went to that. And in those five years, I was taught to hunt, to kill. I was a weapon. I was their best.”

Harry holds his breath. Godric speaks so quietly, he has to listen closely; it’s not shame, per se, that he hears, but a certain weariness. Suddenly, he understands more about Godric than he ever had thought he could.

“Their names are irrelevant now.” Godric turns the blanket to start a new row. It’s violet, after blue. “They had foreseen my birth, had sensed I would one day come of age into great power and responsibility. They wanted that. So theirs I became, until Myrddin came along and picked me from their grasp.”

“How old were you?” Harry asks quietly.

“Fifteen,” says Godric. “Well, near enough. Myrddin took me to my parents. They could barely recognise me, and I did not know them as anything but a distant memory. So Myrddin took me to the other side of the pond. I met Sal in Al-Andalus. We met in the estate of  al-Tagr Zamarad, over which her Father was then Marques.”

At last, a smile. It’s small, and if Harry hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it.

“They presented her a monster,” says Godric, “and she saw a fragile sort of beauty in the devil. Then she decided to ensnare it, and I had not a single clue why until I fell in love with her. Without Salah, I would crumble.” He smiles, crooked and wry. “Mind you, I would rise again, but not the same.”

Harry ponders that. Godric seems far from a devil, but he had been, like he’d said, a child soldier. No wonder he’d fought so hard for Harry, so adamant that a boy remain a boy for as long as fate would allow.

“What about Salah?” he asks. “What was she like when she was young?”

Godric hums. “When I met her, she was known as the demoness serpent. No one could touch her save her family, no one could look at her wrong. At sixteen, no one dared send their sons or daughters to court her, and that’s how she liked it. Her parents despaired—more so when I came along and piqued her interest.” he grins. “To me, she was the elegant serpent poised to strike—graceful, wild, dangerous. I was besotted.”

_ You still are _ , thinks Harry. He’s never seen a man so utterly in love with their wife, which is perhaps a problem with  _ them _ .

Godric stands, gathering the wool and the blanket. He helps Harry up, because his joints have slotted into place like he’s some old man. His left knee pops; Godric laughs and pats him on the back.

“What…” Harry tries again, “What happened to the cult?”

The smile is too sharp around the edges, like a knife. “One day I found Salah washing her dress. The river ran red with blood. Not hers, she told me. She’d found twelve men at a keep in the west. They were dead.”


	9. The Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elves, lessons, traumas...and Godric losing his patience with people's bullshit.

On the twelfth of August, Harry and Draco have their first Apparition lesson. Salah calls it  _ Displacement _ in Spanish, which Draco mutters is more accurate and less likely to cause confusion than  _ Apparition. _

“We’re not ghosts, you know,” he mutters to Harry after their lesson. Neither of them had moved an inch from where they had stood, outside in the garden. The scent of lavender rises to greet them at the porch; soon the plants would go dormant, an advent to winter.

“Well, I’m not,” says Harry. He pokes at Draco’s cheeks; no matter how much sun shines on Draco, he remains pale like alabaster.

As punishment, Draco bats his hand away. This gives Harry reason to take away into the house, where he encounters Dobby. Harry stops dead in his tracks lest he run over the Elf, and so Draco crashes into his back as one would expect cake crashes against a brick wall.

“Hello misters Potter and Malfoy, sirs,” says Dobby.

A murmur of pitched voices lead them to the foyer. A large crowd awaits them there, with Salah at the foot of the stairs, overseeing them, noting their names and, apparently, their entire lineages. It’s that the foyer itself is large; as far as the eye can see, Elves fill up space. Some even stand on the porch and line the steps up.

“I forgot about this,” Harry murmurs to Draco.

A firm hand falls on their shoulders. Godric looms over them like a ginger tower. “Come on lads. Salah will handle our new citizens.  _ We  _ will be duelling.”

Harry has waited weeks to hear those words. As tired as he is of fighting, the more he is of doing so without the right tools, if any. He doesn’t expect to become as great as Salah or Godric, but he’d like to be able to cast more than just  _ Expelliarmus. _

“Oh, good,” says Draco, “now I can  _ burn _ someone else’s limbs off rather than splinching my own. Lose my eyebrows. Decapitate myself!”

“You’re so morbid.” Godric shakes his head.

He brings them to what is an enormous room with gilded walls and a beautiful chandelier. With the flick of his wand, the room shudders into something more practical—less gold, less ceiling-height doors to the secondary gardens. Godric summons several objects, amongst which a table, two chairs, and a whole lot of debris. When he’s done, it looks like a warzone full of broken glass, shattered furniture, and torn up books, curtains and dummies.

“Impressive,” says Draco.

“Indeed.” Godric nods. “Now, the goal of today is for the two of you to catch me. Use any means necessary—and I do mean, any. I want you to be creative. Forget the restriction of spells. Established spells can limit you, and you can’t count on them when the only thing between you and death is one wrong turn. Come.”

He disappears into a shadow, perhaps a cloud of black mist. Harry feels a chill, but he has his wand at the ready. 

For the most part, Godric beats them for an hour. At every twist and turn, he not only completely evades them, but can stun them without making a single noise. All the debris flies at them, somewhat akin to bludgers doing their utmost to smash them. It’s ridiculous, but also eye-opening; they’re vulnerable in more ways than Harry had ever thought of.

With a sign to Draco, he taps at his shoes. Their footsteps have always given them away, and if they can silence them…

Draco nods. They whisper the spell behind an upturned table. When Harry jumps behind a bookcase, he makes almost no noise at all. Now he just needs to extend the spell to his entire body, and Godric won’t know to find him.

“Ohoh!” Godric says from somewhere to Harry’s front-right. “You’re learning. Good!”

It lasts about five minutes. The temperature in the room takes a sudden, unexpected nose dive, and their breaths form clouds in front of them. They can’t just  _ stop _ breathing, but a moment later Draco’s breath disappears with a murmur, and the only giveaway to his position is when he knocks over a book.

A flash of blue, or is it green—

“No!”

Harry tilts forward, but it seems Draco topples over, ashen, ashen. He doesn’t blink, his chest doesn’t move, he’s—

—Cedric, pale, ashen, eyes wide open. He never breathes again, never bats another eyelash, all because Voldemort had not needed him, and so his life means nothing, nothing,  _ kill the spare _ —

“Harry!” Now Godric is in front of him. Draco is on the ground, but has turned over from his back to his stomach. He stares up at the room in horror.

Godric has Harry in a tight embrace. It grounds Harry into the here and now, into the fact that Draco is still alive, that they’re not in the graveyard in Little Hangleton, that he’s  _ safe _ and that Godric, as much as the man thinks himself a monster, would never let any harm come to them.

So Harry can return the embrace. He feels cramped, and his joints only cooperate by inches, but he does manage.

Warm light comes in from the doorway to his right. “Uhm,” says Salah, “is that meant to be burning?”

Godric doesn’t actually let go, not immediately. He nudges Harry in Salah’s direction; she automatically wraps him into her arms, which is good, because Harry’s knees almost give away. He’s exhausted.

And there is, actually, a fire where the spells had come from. It’s the wrong colour—bronze tinged with golden flecks, which must mean it’s magical. Draco had been telling him about that as they’d cuddled up yesterday evening; ‘ _ magical fire—made from purely the casters magic, takes the colours of the caster’s lineage.’ _

“It’s beautiful,” says Harry. He’s kind of sorry when Godric dispels it—not with water, but with a complicated gesture.

“You did that,” says Draco. “You blasted half the room away and tried to set Godric on fire.”

Salah snorts. “Not the most elegant, but certainly effective.” She pats his hair, gentle, like no one has ever done but the spectre of Lily Potter-Evans.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Godric returns to help Draco up, but he doesn’t look angry, or even put upon. He just ruffles Harry’s hair and mends a cut on Draco’s arm.

“That’s enough for today. Go rest up.”

Draco helps Harry upstairs. This time they go to Draco’s bedroom, where it’s nice and cool during this time of day. Summer’s not a time for cuddles, but cooling charms help, and Draco’s room is out of the direct threat of sunshine.

They lay down face to face. Draco traces the line of Harry’s nose, down to his lips and chin. He’s so close Harry could easily kiss him, but he’s so tired his can barely kiss Draco’s finger when it passes by his lips again.

“You scared me,” says Draco. “You went completely blank. I thought he’d—”

“No,” Harry says. “It was all me. I thought you’d—”

He can’t even say it. He sees Cedric again, face blank and pallid, vacant and dead. He’d thought—but no. It had been foolish of him to believe on talk with Cho would make all of this disperse. He hasn’t had nightmares for nearly a year, but just last night he’d not slept. It doesn’t bode well for the days to come.

“I’m not,” says Draco. “I won’t just yet.” he moves closer for a light kiss, and Harry is just happy to feel that—how alive Draco is.

But Harry needs to say it. “I thought you’d died. And I can’t take that, because you’re very important to me.”

Bright grey eyes. Draco doesn’t really smile, but Harry is caught in his eyes. “Sappy,” he says, “but you’re important to me too. And I kind of hate you for it.”

It makes Harry laugh, and something releases in his chest. He’s safe, they both are. The ill feeling may not disappear entirely, but Harry is content enough to hold and be held.

But Draco must sense that Harry is still rattled. With tightness in his lips, he pulls Harry up. They go to the kitchen, where Salah eats a bucket of ice cream and Godric is nowhere in sight until he trudges up the stairs to the cellar. He reports that the potion is doing well.

“Want some?” Salah tilts the bucket towards the boys. Draco declines, but Harry’s not about to ignore a gifted bucket of ice cream from a pregnant woman. He takes it as Draco decides to seat himself on top of the island counter.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he mumbles towards Godric’s general direction. Godric is the type who can’t stand or sit still, so Harry’s not sure where the man is until he takes place next to Salah.

“I won’t lie,” says Godric, “you scared me. I wasn’t expecting that to happen right then, but that’s my mistake.”

Harry blinks at him, spoons clasped between hs tongue and teeth. He can’t speak like that, which his brain remembers when his mouth nearly drops the spoon.

“You were expecting that?” he tries again.

Salah gives him a look. He’s not sure whether it’s for the indecency to the spoon or the question until she says, “Harry, a year ago you went through a traumatic experience—something no one should ever go through, least of all a child. That sort of thing leaves its mark on people. We’d hoped it would not be anything dreadful, but the human condition is unpredictable at best and dangerous at worst.”

“Have you had trouble sleeping since the Tournament?” Godric asks. “I’ve seen your memories. No child should have to cope with that alone.”

Harry’s jaw locks up. He can’t talk even if he had wanted to, and he  _ doesn’t _ . It’s enough that he’d shared his feelings with Cho. It should be enough that Godric has seen all of Harry’s nightmares—the graveyard, Cedric, Voldemort rising from the cauldron, the  _ duel _ —

And he’s so, so, so  _ angry _ that all of that had needed to happen—to him, to Cedric, to Viktor, to Fleur. They’d just been children, and some adults who ought have known better had sent them against each other in a tournament  _ known _ for felling students of age. Harry had been all of fourteen.

They keep  _ asking _ , demanding. All the while the Ministry had denied Voldemort’s return as if Harry had been but a mad, confused boy—as if they hadn’t just allowed all of it to happen, as if they hadn’t been responsible for Barty Jr’s escape, for everything ever that has gone wrong in Harry’s life.

It’s bad enough that Voldemort had killed his parents.

“Hey,” says Salah. “You don’t have to tell us anything. Just know that we are here, and if you want to talk, we will listen.”

And it’s like a dam breaks, and Harry goes to his knees as if they are liquid. Godric catches him first, and then Salah has him in her arms again, and Draco is at his back, sure and strong. Something about them makes Harry feel so vulnerable, as if all his walls come down with ease. 

Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t need to keep the walls up. Maybe he’s allowed to be angry, despairing at how the world fails him again and again. But they  _ haven’t _ failed him, they allow him to be just Harry without the demand he be something more. Even Draco. He’s not The Boy Who Lived to them, he’s  _ Harry. _

So Harry tells them exactly how he feels. He tells them the exact amount of nightmares he’s had, and precisely how many nights of sleep he’s missed. It all just comes out as if the information is right there, now in his reach. It’s not easy, because if it were, it wouldn’t be Harry’s life anymore.  Difficult comes in bold letters.

“I’m just tired,” he says, “I’m tired of being the survivor. I’m tired of surviving. I just want to be Harry. For one day. Is that too much?” 

Draco’s lips press against his temple, and Harry blindly grips his hand.

“No, of course not,” Salah tells him. “Nobody’s life should revolve around survival.”

 

***

On the thirteenth of August, Luna sends Harry a copy of the  _ Quibbler _ . The front page reads in bold, shiny letters—VOLDEMORT: A HALF-BLOOD BASTARD?

A giant moving picture, copied from the family tree Harry knows so well now, traces Voldemort’s lineage from Eder Gaizka Zaahir de la Casa Serpentina all the way to Tom Marvolo Riddle, revealing not only that Voldemort  _ isn’t _ the heir of Slytherin, but that he is twice spawned from illegitimacy—the first time is from the bastard daughter of Eder’s great-grandson.

Harry is almost giddy when he shows Salah the article. Draco almost inhales his pancakes and saves himself from a choking death with less grace than usual.

“Well I don’t appreciate the implication about half-bloods,” says Salah. “But, this does hurt good old Voldemort, doesn’t it? And I’ve just approved Salvador Flores’ article on Godric and I. Lovely.”

She glibly goes back to fielding House Elf reports. The Elves have spread everywhere around Gryposcire, scattering to form renewed tribes where magic and the woods entwine. Nobody’s allowed to go to their homesteads yet, but Winky comes in periodically to report progress. Dobby has now taken over the housekeeping duties.

Godric is at St Mungo’s. Apparently he’s had a little tiff with the staff there, not that he’d said  _ what about _ . This leaves Harry and Draco to watch over the bubbling cauldron; the potion is nearly done now; tomorrow it goes into flasks they can present to Remus so he can test the potion.

“This has been the most exciting summer project,” Draco murmurs. He gauges the temperature, prods the flames until they prove truly stable. “I wonder if they have another potion for us to brew?”

Harry laughs. “Wouldn’t you like a reprieve? It’s summer. We still have to learn how to duel properly, how to apparate…”

“Some of us can’t afford to slack off,” says Draco. “In fact, some of us refuse to.”

And yet, with the potion under control, Draco allows Harry to drag him off the the gardens—without any books, Harry insists. As much as Draco compares Harry to a Philistine, he does bring out his sketchbook, eager to “draw all of the plants in them.”

Harry watches over Draco’s shoulder, his boyfriend sat between his legs. Draco does his work in swift, confident movements, not once even using an eraser. As much as Harry loves to look at Draco’s pretty face, watching him create a scenery of flowers is as mesmerising, if not more.

Unexpectedly, Draco says, “Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Harry doesn’t even have to think about it, and he follows it with, “You make me happy.”

They’ve not been together long. A year ago, Harry would have hexed anyone who would have suggested he would one day be happily canoodling with Draco Malfoy, and he would have been wrong to do so. Draco has changed, and so has Harry.

“Do I?” Draco almost sounds uncertain. “Even though I was horrible to you in the past?”

_ Where is this coming from? _ It would be easier if Harry knew, easier to follow Draco’s thoughts. He slides from behind Draco and nudges until Draco looks at him. “In these past few months, you have become one of my best friends,” he tells Draco. “You just said it yourself: you were horrible to me in the past. Then Salah set you straight,” Draco grimaces, then opens his mouth, but Harry shuts him up with a finger. “Neither of us is straight, I know.”

Draco bats his eyes innocently. Harry then leans in to kiss his forehead. “I’m not saying I’ve forgotten all of that,” he says, “but you’ve changed since then. You stood by me at the Ministry. So, where is all of this coming from?”

The response doesn’t come quickly, not that Harry had expected it to. Most of what Draco often shows is the flamboyant, often cheery side of him, the side that is incredibly un-Malfoy-like—undignified, unrefined, unrestrainedly gay. Harry likes how often he sees this side of Draco precisely because it is so much not what he had ever expected Draco to be like.

But it’s the quiet, introspective version of Draco that had tipped his crush into a rush of intense feeling. It’s that side of him Draco bares now, utterly still, sober.

Quietly, Draco says, “You were, for the longest time, a fantasy—unobtainable, distant, untouchable. You had rejected me, with good reason.” It’s Draco’s turn to quiet Harry, finger upon his lips. “I was a prat, an immature child. In many ways, I am still that child. In many other ways, I am not.

“Last year, after I realised how wrong I had been about everything, how  _ blind _ and blinded...suddenly you wiggled your way into my life, unattainable, distant, untouchable. I thought I caught you looking at me and figured it was Salah you looked for. After all, she was amazing and new.”

“I was looking at you,” says Harry. “Because you were amazing and new.”

Draco laughs. “I suppose I was. I felt better. I had more control over my life, or so I thought.” He casts his eyes downward, to where Harry intertwines their fingers. “Then I came here, and I saw you—I knew, then, that this had to be my chance. So here we are. But this...it can’t last forever. What happens when we leave Gryposcire for good? What happens when we leave for Hogwarts? It won’t just be us, then.”

“I won’t let anything come in between us,” says Harry, “if that’s what you’re afraid of. I have something that’s mine, that’s good. I can’t lose that.”

Somewhat assured, Draco takes in a deep breath and smiles.

In the early afternoon, Godric comes storming in and disappears upstairs. They watch him go; it’s not like anyone can stop him.

“He really doesn’t like the Healers, does he?” says Draco.

“One of these days,” says Salah, quiet, “Godric will lose his patience and do something magnificently stupid yet completely righteous. He probably already has.”

Harry can’t really blame the man. He’s lost his patience too, about three weeks ago at the fifth ‘no change’ in Sirius’ condition. Now, if his Moly plant could just bloom soon, he may concoct something phenomenal in a golden cauldron and have it done with.

Just before  _ Displacement _ lessons, an unfamiliar owl bats its wings into the kitchen. They’ve installed themselves there just because Salah is continuously peckish and doesn’t want to have Dobby pop in an out whenever she craves something new, like salty crackers with soft cheese and a slice of pickles.

The owl is a beautiful brown creature that does Harry the favour of dropping a nice, healthy feather. It’s also cranky as all hell, which gives away its master before Harry even gets to the letter.

 

_ Potter, _

_ For future correspondence, if such were to be the case, I would suggest a less...obvious bird. _

_ I am...relieved, that against all odds, Lily has deemed me forgivable. I would have spoken to her myself, if I had thought she would come. As is, it was difficult enough to summon my own mother, who has confirmed what Professor Oswin had claimed about my Jewish heritage. It’s astounding what one’s parents keep secret. _

_ As for my vow to your mother: I swore, bleeding upon her grave, that I would see no harm come to you. This has been no easy task, as you know better than anyone else; trouble finds you even in the calmest times, as if pulled by your restless soul. _

_ If a certain founder reads this over your shoulder: I am aware of how foolish it was. I stand by my actions. _

_ Give my fond regards to my godson. _

 

_ Yours, _

_ Severus Snape _

 

_ PS: You may call me Severus. _

 

Salah is indeed looking over Harry’s shoulder, and so is Draco. Why either of them is so interested, Harry doesn’t know, but it saves him the trouble of relaying its relevant contents.

“That  _ was _ foolish of him,” says Salah. “So long as either of you lives, he remains bound by the magic to protect you. That’s a great risk, given his position as a spy.”

In response, Harry worries his lip. He doesn’t know exactly what to think of this; it certainly clears up some of Snape’s—Severus’ actions, or at least the motive behind them. It’s just uncanny to learn that to some extent, Sn—Severus  _ cares _ . He would have to, otherwise the blood magic doesn’t work properly.

“He’s your godfather?” Harry asks Draco. “Lucius Malfoy allowed a half-blood to be your godfather?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Please—I know you have a working brain. My father had nothing to do with it.”

Of course not—and Harry has  _ met _ Narcissa Malfoy now. Her husband would stand no chance, not when it comes to Draco.

Harry writes a brief, thoughtful letter to Snape in return. If Snape is now to be Severus, than he may use Harry’s name as well, at least in correspondence. It’s not like they’re friends; Harry won’t forget how snide Severus has been the previous five years. Granted, Severus’ disdain for Harry had lessened the moment Harry had stopped being so atrocious at basic potions, but that isn’t a free pass.

In the late afternoon, Godric finally makes his appearance. He has a letter in hand and looks supremely displeased, which nine out of ten times has something to do with the Order, not that Harry’s about to say that out loud.

He’s right, though. “Dumbledore has called a meeting,” Godric says.

“Oh?” says Salah.

“I may have used an experimental treatment on the Longbottoms,” says Godric. “With consent!” he adds quickly, glancing at Harry and Draco.

With an almost eerie calm, Salah says, “But the horror! What will Albus say? What will  _ Molly _ say!”

“She  _ is _ rather...infallibly loyal,” Godric says, amused.

“I think you mean  _ annoyingly. _ ”

For a whole second, Harry wants to leap to Mrs Weasley’s defence, he really does. It’s not like he doesn’t appreciate all she’s done for him, how she’d taken him in and loved him, but she hasn’t  _ fought _ for him like Godric and Salah have, hasn’t questioned the way he’s treated. She’s followed orders through, and not a single shred of proof seems to convince her to rethink her actions.  _ Or Dumbledore’s. _

Godric doesn’t immediately react to Salah, but Harry catches a smile as Godric turns away. He motions for Harry to follow, says, “They have demanded to see you. I’ve decided to be lenient.”

For all that Harry doesn’t want to go to Grimmauld Place, he  _ is _ curious, and Draco gets to come along. Salah appears to feel no obligation whatsoever to leave the house, and so she stays behind and out of the way. Probably for the best, that—Mrs Weasley and she get along like oil and water: not at all.

What appears like he entire Order is there at Grimmauld Place, including that woman who looks too much like Bellatrix. Even Narcissa hadn’t triggered Harry’s fight or flight response like this; she’s  _ blond _ , at least.

“Aunt Andromeda?” Draco says in a high, disbelieving voice. “Andromeda Black?”

“It’s Tonks, dear,” says she, eyebrow raised. “I’m married. You must be Cissy’s boy. Call me Andromeda, if you like.”

_ Well, that explains it, _ thinks Harry. At least her speech and movements are entirely different from either of her sisters; she is calm, yes, even serene—not maniacal like Bellatrix, or aloof like Narcissa. The severity in her gaze carries a hint of sadness, the same kind that Sirius displays when he thinks no one looks.

“What’s he doing here?” Moody asks...moodily. He points at Draco.

“Don’t you know?” says Godric, smiling beatifically. “He’s our ward now. Harry and he are inseparable; I couldn’t bear to part them.”

True as it is, Harry still blushes profusely. Draco doesn’t fare much better, neutral though his face remains.

“Yes, we’d heard,” says Kingsley. He doesn’t seem too bothered. “It’s a good thing you did that; I can’t imagine You-Know-Who is happy about what Draco did at the Ministry before summer.”

“Father certainly was not,” Draco says flatly.

Andromeda looks at Draco sharply, and if Harry is allowed a guess, Lucius Malfoy has made a new enemy. If the other Black sisters are any indication, Malfoy the Elder will face many unhappy, vengeful years ahead. Harry likes her.

Professor McGonagall calls them to attention. “We’re not here to talk about Draco, or even about Harry, glad as I am to see them both so hale and hearty,” she nods at them, seeming pleased. “Albus, if you would be so kind.”

“Yes, thank you Minerva.” The Headmaster’s eyes never waver from Godric. “Something interesting has come to my attention. Augusta has written to me that her son and his wife have been discharged from St Mungo’s.”

Several people begin to murmur amongst themselves. With a start, Harry realises they must’ve all known Alice and Frank Longbottom; they would have been the first to hear of their torture, the subsequent descent into madness.

“That is happy news,” says Professor McGonagall, smiling. “Did she say why?”

“They have been cured,” Professor Dumbledore states simply.

They prattle on happily for a moment. Dumbledore continues to look at Godric, whose arms remain crossed. He looks on impassively until the chatter dies out, and suddenly everyone looks to Godric.

“Augusta writes,” says Dumbledore, “that we have you to thank.”

Godric looks on for a moment, then nods. A smattering of whispers spreads again, less happy this time. Harry, curious to know and not enthused with the whispers nudges Godric. “I suppose everyone’s too suspicious to ask how you went about it.”

“I had a non-magical doctor scan their brains to assess the damage,” says Godric. He looks briefly at Harry, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She’s a trusted friend; we’ve been sparring with ways to integrate magic into medicine. Most of the damage—I’ll save you the details. The crux of the matter is, if they were to remember who they were, they ought forget who they’ve suffered to become.”

It doesn’t quite settle. A room full of confused faces stare back at him until Mrs Weasley gasps. “You obliviated them?”

Godric shrugs, easy. “They were stagnant. Their son was becoming a man without them—for what? Is their sacrifice worth nothing? I’ve seen what war does, and I lived many more than you will. Does Neville not deserve a chance to meet his parents?”

“Crude,” says Andromeda, nodding in approval. “But efficient.”

“At last! Someone sensible!”

Harry almost laughs, but it would be in bad taste. That thought aside, he is truly  _ glad _ Neville gets to spend the rest of August with his parents, gets to start the school year knowing they will be there for him.

He has Salah and Godric. He has Draco. Now Neville has the twins  _ and _ his parents. Nobody ought complain about Godric’s methods when they were consensual and now proven to work.

The rest of the meeting is boring in comparison. Mrs Weasley gets on Godric’s case one more time before Andromeda shuts her down entirely, “It’s a war, woman; we use the means we have. Or have you already forgotten your own losses?”

It does the job neatly, even if Mrs Weasley spends the rest of the evening in a glum sort of state, muttering to herself. Harry’s respect for Andromeda Tonks-Black skyrockets every time she opens her mouth, which is not often but still pointed.

But it’s Moody who tries to make things interesting, eye circling in on Godric when the discussion turns to Voldemort’s recently acquired followers. “Where’s your wife?”

“Keeping the papers in business,” says Godric. “I’m sure you’ve seen.”

“Yes, very clever,” says Dumbledore. “A thorough mapping of Voldemort’s lineage.”

Not only that, really—many pictures of Salah have graced the pages of the  _ Prophet _ and  _ Witch Weekly _ , from their outing to magical London, to her shopping trip with Draco. She has appeared more than Harry and his grand total of once, to a number of five times and counting. Every single time, she manages to look in the camera's direction, as if she  _ knows _ when a reporter tries to sneak up on her.

Moody grins in an unpleasant way at Godric. Harry wants to shut him up before anything uncouth comes out, and his ill feeling isn’t misplaced. “How’s it feel to play second fiddle to Godric Gryffindor?”

Even Mrs Weasley lets out an indignant sound. Tonks and her mother look at Moody as if they might hex him, and Harry is rather intent on seeing what two women of the Black family can accomplish in the bat of an eyelash.

But Godric—

_ Laughs. _ It’s a deep, rumbling thing from within his chest, head thrown back. If Harry had not known him for months, he would have pissed his pants in sheer terror at the man with red, flaming hair, a veritable tower of a human—if he is even to be counted among the human. 

Even then, it's a near thing; Harry shudders. 

Godric looks anything but human. There is something eerie about him now, about how sharp all of him is, the way he stands as if on a precipice, yet rooted to the ground. Something swells around him before it ebbs, but the uncanny feeling remains: they gaze not at a man, but something of legend, of myths.

“You fool,” Godric says quietly. “They gave you a magical eye and you lost sight of what is right in front of you.”

“Holy shit,” Bill mutters. “Bloody sodding hell.” His mother doesn’t even rebuke his language; she looks stricken, almost paling.

It’s unfortunate that Moody is made of sturdier stuff, but even he looks uncomfortable. He fidgets. “I meant no—”

“You did,” says Godric. “At least have the nerve to stand by it.”

The air stays tense, then, but Harry sees McGonagall send Moody such a death glare as to have rivalled Medusa’s snakes. She  _ keeps _ glaring at him until Dumbledore pulls the meeting to a close and everyone but Harry, Draco, and Godric breathe a sigh of relief.

Dumbledore approaches them just as they prepare to leave. “I suppose you’ll want your previous post at Hogwarts?”

The expression on Godric’s face is just shy of distaste. “I already have my post, if you’ll keep me as the Defence teacher.”

It actually surprises a few people nearby to a halt. Legend hasn’t specified who had been the first headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts, but general consensus seems to have put Godric on that particular pedestal. Salah has been disabusing them of various false notions for months; now it’s Godric’s turn to drop bombs everywhere.

“Well,” says Dumbledore, apparently taking this with only slightly raised eyebrows, “I don’t suppose you ever quite left the position…”

“I did,” Godric says easily. “My granddaughter Eunike took over after we left.  Amat took Salah’s place as headmistress.” He smiles.

_ That _ sends a shock through the gathered group, but Godric seems not to notice or even care. Harry, who has lived with the two founders  _ and _ studied the family tree, is not at all ruffled; nothing is as written in the history books, and as Salah had told it between giggles, Rowena—Hrodwunn, really, had all but begged Salah to take the position, as Hrodwunn had much preferred to be left in peace as she read through scrolls and tablets and tomes by then already ancient.

In the moments it takes everyone to process what Godric has said, he he gathers the boys and apparates them with pinpoint precision to where Salah is, which happens to be the parlour. They land right next to her as she is telling off a very put out Amat in Spanish so rapid Harry might as well throw his hands up in the air. Which he does. Mostly because because he doesn’t even bother to try.

He throws himself on the nearest sofa; Draco follows a mere second later, arms wrapped around Harry’s chest. This is a good place to be.

“Mother,  _ please, _ ” says Amat in what Harry then realises is Parseltongue, “ _ the house looks fine. Good, even. I don’t think Mr Lupin will mind. _ ”

In the meantime, Godric has wrapped his hand around Salah’s shoulder and sways her from side to side. “He’ll probably be delighted to see his honorary godson.”

Before Harry can truly ponder the reality of Godric understanding Parseltongue, Amat has slid away from the painting and Dobby announces their new houseguest. Salah seems somewhere between incensed to murder and perfectly happy hostess, so all is well in that corner of the room.

Remus wanders in as if he is both terribly lost and incredibly awed. He doesn’t even notice Harry until his eyes take in the actual human beings in the parlour; it’s not that Salah and Godric live in opulence per se, but the furniture in decor are tasteful, and they bespeak a certain wealth even Harry hasn’t encountered twice.

“Nice,” Remus croaks, and then coughs. “Nice house.”

“Manor, really,” Godric teases. “Welcome to Griffon’s Door.”

Remus blinks like an owl in deep night. “Is that literal?”

“Yes,” says Salah.

“Not really,” answers Godric at the same time. His chin rests atop Salah’s head, and he grins wide enough for mischief to be afoot. “No griffons here, though several doors, as you may have noted.”

Salah rolls her eyes. “Have a seat, please. Some of us have not forgotten our manners.”

Dobby brings tea. For the first five minutes as they settle into their places, Remus regards Salah oddly, as if he can’t put his finger on something. Seated the ways she is, her blouse folds and covers her stomach well enough, but Remus is a werewolf. When Remus does look his way, Harry shakes his head slowly.

“I met aunt Andromeda today,” Draco says conversationally. “She seems well.”

“Wonderful lady,” Remus comments into his tea.

“Yes,” says Godric, “I noticed Nymphadora is making eyes at you.”

It’s enough to make both Harry and Remus choke. Draco makes an amused sort of sound at the back of his throat, but remains otherwise poised. Admittedly, Harry is blind to many things, but this is completely news to him, and he doesn’t know what to make of it; he’s  _ certain _ Remus and Sirius are in a relationship, but what does that mean if Sirius never wakes up?

“I’d rather she didn’t,” says Remus after he’s recovered. He coughs a little. “I have my hands full with one Black scion; I don’t need them fighting…”

“Who said anything about fighting?” says Salah. “I’m sure they can share, if you’re inclined to date both.”

“Uhm,” says Remus, and Harry feels a swell of sympathy. Whatever Gods had decided the conversation had needed to land in this direction and make a run for it, he is not thanking them. Neither is Remus, really.

“I—I don’t think,” says Harry, “that we’re here to discuss Remus’ private life.”

As if in interest, Salah lays down her cup. “Why  _ are _ we here? Amat never told.”

A moment of silence falls. Remus doesn’t look at anyone, and Harry hazards a guess as to why. He’d been the one to send Amat to Remus in the first place, and he’d like to learn it’s born fruit, if only for Remus’ sake.

“Lycanthropy,” says Remus, “your—daughter,” he glances up at the vacated painting, “has been kind enough to tell me about her own experiences, but it’s so incredible…”

“So you came to us,” says Salah. “Well, good thinking. One of the many wrongs of the last five centuries is the fear-mongering towards weres. I won’t even begin on the laws; they’re ludicrous, and it looks as if some fools over in Spain want to follow the bad example set here.”

“Calm yourself,” says Godric. “My heart can’t take it if you start on about it. I’ll be sure to murder someone.”

Draco sits up straight. “I nominate Dolores Umbridge.”

To Godric’s credit, Draco is rewarded a glare. “We’ve already dealt with that dumpster fire. Nominate someone else.”

It takes a sure moment for Remus to speak again. “You...do you really believe…?”

“That werewolves are human and deserve to be treated as such? That you are valuable members of any magical community? That your strengths as weres outweigh the potential dangers? Come on, lad,” says Godric, “a wolf in full control of themselves is a powerful ally. You’ve been told lies about who and what you are, and it’s made you weak, vulnerable, and fragile. My daughter could easily transform from her human form to a beautiful black wolf. Nowadays, you suffer your monthly transformations. Tell me you don’t think this is ridiculous.”

Never has Godric seemed so agitated.  _ Except in his defense of me, _ Harry amends, because that had hit a nerve in Godric. Of course, Amat had been his daughter more than she had been a werewolf, and in the last couple of months Harry has gotten the impression that family means everything to Godric.

Remus clears his throat. “So you really are...Godric Gryffindor.”

At this, Salah narrows her eyes. “Would I marry anyone else?”

It takes a moment, but Remus bows his head. “I suppose not. It’s just—your histories have been horribly mangled. We’re told you’re a man, for God’s sake.”

“God had nothing to do with it,” says Salah. “White men did. I suppose they thought it’d be fairer to have the genders equalled in number.”

“That’s a lark,” says Godric. “Afterwards the treatment of women went steeply downhill. Or was it before? I don’t quite recall. It’s been a few centuries.”

Draco snorts. “You say that. A few centuries,” he leans in to Harry. “It’s as if it’s been but a few days for him.”

“Couple of months, really.” Godric shrugs.

It devolves from there. Harry hasn’t seen Remus look so relaxed, not ever; it’s as if some weight has been lifted from his chest. It’s a strange sight, but entirely welcome.

He’s a bit more concerned when he throws an arm around Draco, but when it really comes down to it—werewolf godfather. Remus can probably smell that they’ve been all over each other lately, and he hasn’t come and taken Harry aside to warn him about Malfoys being evil. Harry’s certain to get that treatment from  _ someone _ on this side of the brewing war; it’s a matter of who, when, and where.

He hasn’t forgotten his earlier conversation with Draco either. People will most certainly comment on their relationship, especially with Lucius Malfoy being a  _ known _ Death Eater. But that is a concern for another time.

In the end Remus doesn’t stay for dinner. Salah almost insists, because despite how much better Remus looks, she still finds him too thin. Harry agrees. 

“You’re paying me,” Remus splutters. 

“Well, yes,” Salah says matter-of-factly. “You’re the only competent Defence teacher to have graced Hugiweard in, oh...seventy years? It demands reward.”

Remus gawks. “I was...paid. I had a salary.”

“Consider it a raise,” Salah tells him. “And if you must splutter about not doing anything for it: you may help Godric teach these rascals how to fight and defend.”

And that is how Remus has a free invitation for next week Monday. He leaves confused but richer for it, a feeling Harry has only just gotten used to. 

It's not until after dinner that he realises the cunning of bringing Remus into their fold; their Wolfsbane requires a test subject, and who better than the resident werewolf? He brings it up to Draco. 

“Yes, I suppose,” says he, “that must certainly be a factor.” Draco pushes his curls away, tucks them behind his ear. “Though I've come to realise they genuinely care. If they wanted Remus as just another spy, they would not have gone through such an effort to make him independent.” 

“Salah’s paying him,” says Harry. 

“You're cute,” Draco says fondly, “a little slow, sometimes. She phrased the payment as being an extra for his excellent job as a Hogwarts teacher—Hogwarts of old. Then she hired him to be our private tutor. It may seem like strings come attached, but she's given him access to our home and family. That's a huge risk for a single spy.”

Naturally, Draco is right and he is brilliant. Harry shows his affection by tackling Draco to the bed, which is all good and well until they’re both undeniably hard and Draco has managed to pin Harry to the bed. It’s a bit of an unusual position; Harry doesn’t let Draco win often, but when he does, it’s a tad difficult to ignore how arousing he finds that.

This isn’t the first time they’re in such a precarious position. It is, however, the first time Harry just pulls Draco close and kisses him silly, because this is a bit much and Draco is too pretty to be left like that.

It’s all kinds of hot and good, and they’re not about to stop, not this time. Harry doesn’t even know how far he can allow this to go, but that’s not high on his list of problems right now; his trousers, though, and the things Draco can do with those lips of his, that’s—

“Boys!” Godric calls from downstairs. “Dinner’s in twenty minutes!”

“God,” Harry gasps. “Can they  _ not _ —”

“I know I’m divine,” Draco mutters, “but God is taking it a bit far—”

“Oh hush,” says Harry. He plants a hard kiss against Draco’s lips. “We need to get ready for dinner.”

Draco arches a brow. “We have twenty minutes.”

He does know how to get Harry’s attention. “What are you thinking?”

“We have hands.”

They don’t even disrobe, which is likely what makes it all more feverish; every bit of pale skin Harry catches a glance of sends him just an inch closer. It’s a bit of a mess to get in a good enough position to jerk each other off, and at first they can’t get a good rhythm because of their tangle of limbs.

But it’s not like they last anyway. Draco is too close, his breaths hot. When Harry thinks to catch Draco’s lips, their movements gain in something akin to desperation, and it’s over so quickly and with such vehemence, Harry’s legs possibly stop working.

“Oh my—” Draco’s words are muffled against Harry’s shoulder. It would almost be funny if Harry weren’t so out of it himself.

“Who’s a God now?” says Harry.

“Oh—go away.”

They have enough time left to clean up, but Harry’s legs are really wobbly and he can’t actually control the wide grin on his face, not that Draco’s smug look helps in any way. If Harry had known the feeling of intense satisfaction that would accompany this, he would have suggested it ages ago.

Once they are presentable, they appear for dinner. Godric is too busy reading the evening  _ Prophet _ to look at them proper, but Salah has her eyes on the the moment they enter. He wishes she could just look elsewhere, because he’s sure he’s an open book right now, and it’s all Draco’s fault.

Whatever she sees, it makes her grin. Harry turns bright red.


	10. The Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Harry wants is a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahaha I almost forgot to post.
> 
> Anyway some ass wipes are being mean to Flamethrower so if you guys need more good HP fics, she's also writing a Founder-fic that basically inspired this trilogy. Giver her some love and support!!

On Friday, the Moly blooms.

The timing is almost perfect. In the hours Harry doesn’t have to practice duelling, read all the books he can get his hands on, learn Spanish, and oversee a potion, he has begun to work on a mixture of lemon extract and honey. He’d chosen a small, silver cauldron; gold had proven too fiery.

As carefully as he can, he takes one of the light blue petals from the flower. It only remains in the cup he has with him for the few seconds he has to bring it to his cauldron, then he drops the petal in his brew and lets it simmer.

This all takes place merely minutes after midnight, with the tiniest sliver of the waxing moon as his witness. He would rather have done this on a new moon, but his flower hadn’t done him the favour of blooming on Wednesday.  _ Almost perfect timing. _

At least he’d stayed awake this long. Harry hadn’t intended to, but sometimes the insomnia comes to him, and all he has to do is read or walk. Tonight, his Moly has bloomed, and that’s for the better.

And so he’s washing his hands when it happens. He looks up at his reflection—

Pale. he’s never been so pale. He’s never been gaunt, either, nor have his eyes been blue. Something evil stares back at him, briefly disappears when the walls in Harry’s mind slam down harder than before.

The third layer is a new project, one he is actually supposed to start on come Saturday. Of course that means he’s gone ahead and tried it earlier—the various confounding halls of Hogwarts, how they neither begin nor end anywhere, how they lead to his classroom, the second layer.

But the point is that anyone who tries to get into his mind should get lost in Hogwarts. Perhaps it is not a great defense; anyone who has ever gone to the school knows the layout. Harry has been tweaking it in many ways, changing the locations of passages at random, adding secrets, moving paintings. The rotating stairs help, change at the last moment, set new paths, confound.

Trouble is this: how should he protect against something  _ inside _ his own mind?

If he’s not careful, he may lose control over his own body. With a little concentration, Harry envisions Hogwarts once more, the halls, the stairs—

—the girls’ lavatory, where Myrtle haunts. It leads him down to the Chamber of Secrets, the dead basilisk. He’s read more about those creatures now, and Adorada is a sad, grey mound, nothing at all like the colourful, majestic creatures Harry has seen illustrated. In life, she seems to have been a dark green, but in her final years she had withered, colors dulled, scales shriveled.

And of course, young Voldemort waits for Harry there. He’s not the handsome boy Harry had met the first time he had been down here, but rather a diminished version, a malformed copy.

“What do you want,” says Harry.

Tom grins. “I’ve already got it.”

“What—my attention?” Harry shakes his head. “You dramatic little shit.”

In all the time Harry has been aware of Voldemort’s existence, he has not once been afraid of him per se—afraid of the danger he poses, yes, but not of the man himself. Now, he is even less frightened of this shade, this fragment.

A laugh. “That has always been your mistake,” Tom says. “You ought fear your superiors.”

Harry can feel it; Tom tries to summon—

They’re in a nursery. It’s not familiar at all until he takes a good look and sees his mother on her knees, her green eyes glistening with tears. Tom circles around her, the memory of Lily almost static but for the way her image twitches, the way she slowly seems to sway on her knees. Behind her—a baby.

Brown face almost red from the crying, Harry stares back at himself, small and vulnerable, still new enough to life that he remembers nothing of. The shriek he hears when Dementors are near is the only sound of his mother’s voice he had known before the Resurrection Stone had landed in his hands.

But this is not his memory. It’s not his worst recollection, not something of his that the Dementors could prey upon.

He grins. “It seems you ought fear  _ me, _ Tom,” says Harry. “After all, I bested you before I could even talk.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, whether because Harry uses his birth name or because of all the rest, Harry can only guess. “ _ You _ did not best me. This infernal wretch did.”

A coldness descends upon Harry, but he does not react to the insult thrown at his mother. “So you fear her, no? After all, the Dementors leech unto this, don’t they?” He smiles grimly. “I do not fear you. I’ve no reason to fear a shade.”

The scene shifts.

Little Hangleton, the graveyard. Now Harry is chilled to the bone, but his expression remains neutral. His mind rebels; he does not want to be here, panicked and out of control, Cedric dead and his own life in peril—Post-Traumatic Stress, Godric had explained a short while after Harry had broken down. It can manifest after traumatic events of any kind.

Harry has many of them. One of them had been bound to break him, and this had been the one to do the job proper. Now he has to un-break, but he’s not alone.

“I’ll kill you,” Tom says. “And I will have your body, wear it as my own.”

That’s enough of that, then. He shouldn’t have lingered and given Tom’s spectre any attention, but now it’s a lesson learned.

With a bit of concentration, Harry pushes this memory, this place, away. From above, below, beyond, he can sense the shape of the soul fragment— _ horcrux.  _ He kicks it aside with some relish, but it’s not like it goes far away; Tom has his tiny claws bored into Harry’s mind, and it will take a fight. Harry slams his shields down and hears the scream that comes with it, distant, near, distant.

His reflection is still not his own. Harry bares his teeth. “If you could kill me, you would have done so by now.”

In the next second, it’s his face, tired, drawn, that stares back. Even with this mild triumph, he can’t go back to bed; it’s not that he fears the horcrux will take control so much as that he’s so tired he  _ knows _ he won’t sleep. His mind, racing, comes to one point of convergence: his mother.

She is with him. Harry closes his eyes briefly as she caresses his cheek, and if he listens closely, he can even hear her whisper. His father’s deeper timbre answers, but he can’t quite hear what they say.

And so Harry sets off to the library to do the one thing he should have done ever since Dumbledore had revealed to him the extent of his mother’s sacrifice: research.

Never has he been so glad for the freedom Salah and Godric have granted him. A clock in the library tells him it’s just half past one, which mean it’d taken him an hour and almost and extra half of it to get the potion done and be assaulted by a horcrux. The potion has to sit until the sun rises, and then he can gather it in a vial at whichever time he pleases. The rest he will keep for future use, kept in the cellar below.

The section on blood magic is small. He picks the oldest tome, dated to 1318, and cast a simple spell to help him with the mad mess that was Middle English before it had settled to something more comprehensive.

Most of the book isn’t even about blood magic, really. Mostly it’s about blood, its properties, uses and challenges. It’s rather interesting, if somewhat gruesome at certain bits and rather surprisingly accurate in others, considering what Godric had had to say about the Middle Ages and the Church, but then Harry recognises the name of the author as one of Salah’s great-many-times-grand-nieces and that’s that.

Salah finds him there sometime near five in the morning. It’s a bit light outside, enough so to make Harry worry about why  _ she _ is awake so early.

“It’s not often I find someone here at this hour,” she says before he can ask. “Sometimes Godric, after he’s come from a walk.” She sits down before Harry. “I suppose he’s still out.”

“Why are  _ you _ up, then?”

“I miss him,” she says, smiling. “The baby’s kicking a lot, and she likes it when he talks to her. I thought he might read to the baby.”

Harry arches a brow. “Well, I’m not reading her this.” He lifts the tome.

“Blood and Magic,” Salah gathers from the title. “Blood magic is the oldest form of magic. I would think one would like lighter reading so early.”

Harry shrugs. “I want to know what my mum did,” he says.

“Sacrificed her life for you,” says Salah. “It’s much simpler than anything you’ll find in a book. Blood magic, the true kind, is like that. Blood is a source of energy. Those who give birth deal in it, those who kill spill it.”

“You’ve done both.”

Salah nods. “And thus it’s with certainty that I can tell you the answers will not be in books or scrolls. Your mother loved you, and gave her life to safeguard yours. Her blood is your blood, your blood hers. Magic listens to that kind of call.”

“Right.” Harry looks down at the page he was reading. “But shouldn’t that have protected me from the Dursleys? They’ve been as much of a danger, if not more, than Voldemort.” In fact, Harry is certain there had been a couple of incidents where he would have died if not for magic. Still, it feels incomplete.

“Good observation.” Salah smiles ruefully. “I confess I do not have all the answers. If there is one thing I can say, it is that Dumbledore was wrong to believe Lily’s magic would only activate if you were kept near family. Blood magic doesn’t work like that; the protection is yours and thus attached to you. It was crafted from a mother’s love for her child.”

_ A mother’s love. _ “Could it be because my aunt never…”

“Perhaps.” Salah heaves a sigh. “Perhaps the magic felt the lack of love in your environment, the lack of love and care you received...and without that to feed on, it could not act properly. It’s difficult to theorise about something so wild and arcane. But Lily’s intentions and feelings remain on you still, and I am incredibly happy for it.” She taps his cheek. “I wouldn’t have met you otherwise, would I?”

That’s what really gets Harry’s attention—how genuinely she cares. It still makes his head spin whenever she or Godric express any sort of fondness for him, and by the knowing tilt of her smile, Salah is aware.

But it makes the next part easier. Harry had not planned to bring it up now, but there never seems to be a proper time to bring up the subject. Godric should be here too, but Harry doesn’t know where the man is, and his mother is nudging at him; he can feel his parents’ approval as it settles in his bones, and that’s truly what spurs him on.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, and is incredibly nervous when he has all of Salah’s bright-eyed attention. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I know we haven’t know each other a long while, but you’ve done a lot for me,” he sucks in a breath, “and you seem to hold a great deal of affection for me…”

Her hazel eyes seem impossible in their colour, clear and almost like honey. “Of course, Harry,” Salah says softly. “You’re family.”

It’s all he can do not to actually cry. “Well, I,” he clears his throat. “I found this book. Beitris gave me the book. I asked about magical adoption…”

He can’t even say it. His throat closes up. Salah blinks rapidly, mouth slightly open. A little gasp escapes her, but she says nothing, waiting. Her face journeys through surprise, confusion, brows furrowed, and then to surprise again.

“I just,” says Harry, once he can speak again. “I know it’s very sudden, and probably far too soon, but you’re family. And I know it doesn’t need to be formal or anything, because you’re my ancestors and everything, but I thought it’d be nice to...I dunno…”

Fortunately, she understands his rambling. “You’d like Godric and I to adopt you?”

Relieved, Harry nods. “Not necessarily via magical adoption. I think just...regular adoption? Godric should be here too, but…”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” Now her eyes twinkle, her smile is wide and pleased. “ _ I _ certainly am. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Yes.” Then he chuckles. “If you could see my mum right now, she’d be clapping.”

Salah’s eyes go up. “She’s still here? Well, I do suppose the link between the two of you is strong, given the magic she called upon.”

“Dad’s here too,” Harry says, grinning. He listens for a moment; if he concentrates, he can just about make out voices. “Mum is happy. Dad says it’s the proper thing to do, which I take to mean that he’s also happy.”

“Yes, well,” Salah says, laughing, “I’m sure some will find reasons to disapprove. Now, come along. I do want to share the news with Godric and Draco.”

The sun has risen now, though it’s still early and misty outside. Draco won’t be up until seven and only because he must; if left alone, he’s not up until well after ten—no reason to keep to Hogwarts’ timetable during the summer, he argues. Between insomnia and moon-lit endeavors, Harry usually wakes before nine. At least, barring incidences that leave him waking around or after noon.

They find Godric outside, spotting him as he breaks through the trees that hide the Door. he appears to be in deep thought and doesn’t notice them as they wait for him on the porch.

A thrill of nerves goes through Harry. He’d believed Salah wholeheartedly when she’d said Godric would be delighted to adopt him; he also knows Godric well enough to be able to anticipate a reaction. Still, it’s not without some trepidation that he waits for Godric to come nearer. He doesn’t even know how he will formulate the question.

“We’ll have to call up our solicitor,” Salah tells him idly. “There’s no rush, of course, but there’s a lot of details to work out regarding inheritances and titles, not to mention making it official both here and in Spain.” She smiles. “I was already planning to visit after the little one is born, but another reason won’t hurt. You’ll meet Xiomara, of course…”

“Can I call you mum?” Harry asks after a second to take it all in. “To practice.”   
  
“I’d be honoured,” Salah responds. “Godric might cry if you call him dad, though.”   
  
That is excellent news. “Oi, dad!”    
  
To Godric’s credit, he looks up at them without a single second of hesitation. Then he frowns and blinks, probably realising that he hasn't had children for a little under a millennia, and his latest baby is yet in the womb.    
  
“Yeah?” Godric calls back the next second after this spectacular facial journey. There's a small waver in his voice. He’s stopped walking, which is the exact opposite of what Harry had intended.   
  
Harry’s cheeks heat up, but he marches on. “Come over here! Mum and I have something to tell you!”

Almost instantly, Godric jogs up to the porch. He greets Salah with a kiss on her cheek, ruffles Harry’s hair for good measure. Even in the early light of morning, with the mist still clinging to the garden, Godric manages to look like he shines from within.

“Hello, darling,” Salah says. “We have a son.”

***

An hour later, when Godric has finally stopped tearing up and no longer holds Harry sequestered in an embrace, Harry sneaks into Draco’s room.

This is an easy enough task. Draco doesn’t wake when Harry closes the door, nor does he give much of an indication of waking when Harry bounces on the bed. He does, however, groan in annoyance when Harry shakes him lightly, and even swats Harry away when Harry pokes his face.

“Stop,” Draco says. “Fiend! It’s not seven yet.”

It’s about five to seven, so Harry waits out those five minutes—not that Draco goes back to sleep, not now. Instead he blinks sluggishly at their surroundings; Draco’s room is dark, a purplish hue cast upon it. In this light, it looks almost Gothic, which seems to suit Draco’s more dramatic nature.

Precisely at seven, Draco says, “All right, what is it?”

“Nobody’s died,” Harry begins, because that’s the proper way to inform someone he’s rudely awakened, “nor has anyone been injured. I asked Godric and Salah to adopt me.”

At first, Draco nods along. At Harry’s final pronouncement, he goes glassy-eyed, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that bit?”

“I asked,” Harry says slowly, grinning now, “Salah and Godric. To adopt me.”

A second later, Draco bolts upright. His curls stick in several directions, and he looks rather adorable there with his wide eyes and pink lips. Harry steals a quick kiss just because he can and because Draco deserves it.

“You,” says Draco, “how long have you been planning this? Did they say yes? What am I saying—of course they said yes. Leave it to Harry Potter to be adopted by the  _ founders _ of Hogwarts.” Draco taps a finger against Harry’s lips. “Congratulations. You are by far the most ridiculous human being.”   


“Thank you!” Harry says happily.

Of course, they can’t lay in bed forever. Harry has Spanish in the morning, and Draco gets to wander the gardens with Godric and learn all about the various herbs and plants that grow there. As it’s Friday, they’re all set to visit Sirius; Harry would mind less if there were some sort of  _ change _ to his Godfather.

He’s about to make that change. He has to, otherwise he will never see Sirius awake.

Draco and he hold hands the entire way to the ward. A Healer makes a few notes as they wait, but offers nothing worth mentioning. Sirius hasn’t worsened and doesn’t look pale. The only real change in the room is the empty beds where the Longbottoms had once spent their days.

Godric takes the chart, mutters under his breath. Since Salah is too busy getting comfortable in the nearby chair, Harry figures this is his moment to sneak a potion into Sirius’ mouth without getting either of his parents—parents!—into trouble.

Of course, it takes a bit of prying, and  _ Draco _ looks on as Harry struggles to both keep Sirius’ mouth open and pour a potion down his throat.

“There’s a spell for that,” says Godric. He hasn’t even taken his eyes off of the chart. It’s Salah who casts the spell to help Harry, and with that his plan to keep the two out of it has gone well and far into the pits of hell.

“I hope you have more of that,” says Salah, eyeing the now empty vial. “Did you  _ at least _ write down what you did?”

Haughtily, “Of course.” There’s no point in an experiment without extensive notes. Harry has the potion written in a separate binder, one where he puts his ideas, tested and untested. It just happens to be a bit of a mess at the moment, as he’s gone over his notes several times and hasn’t cared to put them back into order.

“Should a Healer turn up,” Godric  stage-whispers to Draco, “I saw nothing. Neither did you.” At least Draco has the good nature to laugh.

After about fifteen minutes, Sirius shows no change other than having relaxed into the pillows. Godric confirms he is now asleep rather than in a magical coma, and his brain activity seems to have normalised. He’s dreaming. Whatever spell Bellatrix had cast, it has left no real mark there, though it seems Sirius is not ready to wake.

“Time to heal?” Salah asks.

“Time to heal,” Godric confirms.

They have their lunch in a little restaurant in the Soho area, fancy but comfortable—away from prying magical eyes. Draco is even allowed desert, as long as Harry keeps a firm hold of his hand so he doesn’t bounce off the pavement like a human-shaped albino beach ball.

“I’m not an  _ albino, _ ” Draco protests when Salah calls him exactly such. “Though my mother might be. Have you seen her complexion?”

“I can be said to be faintly aware of her appearance,” Salah replies. “Never met the woman, of course.”

“Of course,” Draco says, nodding along sagely. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes are alight with mischief. “It’s all the inbreeding, you understand.”

It’s not the sort of thing Harry would have paid attention to, but Narcissa Malfoy-Black’s paleness does seem preternatural compared to that of her sisters. Aside from a general notion that cousins marrying each other is bad, Harry had never stood still on the more...exact, practical consequences to families intermarrying so much they’re all related somehow.

Not that any of the pureblood families seem keen on facing this small,  _ significant _ detail. The fact alone that Draco is admitting to it has Harry’s eyebrows raised.

“Just look at Sirius and I,” Draco says, sipping on his wine. Harry still thinks it’s a bit too early. “We’re cousins once removed, yes, but what else? I don’t even dare ask. We could be second cousins, twice removed. We could be third cousins. All in the name of blood purity.”

Salah snorts. “Should we discuss the European royal families while we’re at it? Godric once tried to chart the bloodlines.”

“And I had a headache that lasted me a century,” says Godric. “Never again. You think the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight are a convoluted, inbred mess—wait until you encounter the Habsburgs,  _ without _ the meticulous documentation of their offspring.”

In an unfortunate twist of events, Harry is uncertain what is funnier: Draco’s disturbed expression or the sheer disgust in Godric’s voice. He settles on both to save himself the mental hassle of choosing.

Upon their return to Griffon’s Door, Winky greets them with Hogwarts letters. Harry has been so thoroughly enjoying his vacation, he’s had no time nor space to look forward to Hogwarts, and now he’s not sure he even  _ does _ . Hogwarts means facing everyone—his friends, his teachers, his fears. Griffon’s Door not only keeps him safe from all of that; it’s the one place Voldemort cannot find. It’s where he has settled.

But he’s made team Captain, which means he’s in charge of most things Quidditch now. And suddenly, he’s completely swallowed into a tight embrace from Salah and Godric, with Draco laughing his arse off on the side.

“Congratulations!” says Salah.

Despite himself and his Hogwarts-anxieties, Harry’s face splits into a grin. Godric ruffles his hair.

“We’ll send for your things,” says Salah idly. She catches them grimacing at their lists, and only Harry looks up, surprised. He’s always personally gone to Diagon Alley, the option to order things by owl had never been presented. Salah raises her brows. “Unless you want to go shopping. Godric would likely be delighted to go.”

“I would  _ not _ ,” says Godric from the kitchen. He disappears in the direction of the cellar, likely to check on the potion. Salah has folded her letter and put it on the table, more interested in the boys.

“I’m sure they would like to see their friends,” Salah calls to him.

“I wouldn’t, actually,” Draco says curtly. “It wouldn’t be safe. Pansy has been keeping her distance ever since I made my allegiances clear. Her parents are...involved. As are Millicent’s, and Theo’s dad—no, you can’t save them,” he says quickly when he catches Salah’s look. “They’re safe as long as they are at school, but outside we’re all beholden to their parents’ loyalty to a mad corpse. It’s safer for them if they’re not near me.”

With that, Draco walks out, footsteps disappearing upstairs. Harry would follow, but something in the rigidity of Draco’s shoulders, the way Draco had turned away swiftly, tells him he’s not welcome at the moment.

“It’s not right,” says Harry.

“Oh, I know,” says Salah, “but this is war.” She sighs. “I’ll move the Desplazamiento lessons up an hour. Go find him in about half of that, won’t you?”

Thirty minutes have never felt this long. Harry spends it trying to mentally prepare himself for having to somehow move himself from one place in space to another; Draco and he have been trying for days without much success. He would also rather not splinch himself, as Draco has worked them both up by recounting story after story of a lost limb, torn hair, missing eyebrows...

But pass the time does, and Harry jogs up the stairs to Draco’s room. A closed door isn’t unusual; Draco likes his privacy, had even confessed to Harry that he’s used to having an entire wing all to himself. That seems lonely, especially given that Draco is an only child.

For a change, Draco has a lot of light in his room. It’s the first time Harry has found the curtains drawn; Draco rather likes it to be gloomy, as if he were some sort of diurnal vampire.

“If it helps,” says Harry quietly, “I’m not going either.”

He doesn’t expect the sharp turn, or the cool way Draco regards him, sneer ready on his lips. “What—Saint Potter sacrifices a chance to see his friends just so his poor boyfriend isn’t lonely? I’ll be fine without you here.”

“That’s not—” Harry snarls. “You’re overreacting.”

“Oh, thank you; it sure is nice knowing my feelings matter.”

“Why are you being like this?” Harry dodges a well-thrown pillow, more on reflex than anything. “I’m trying to be nice!”

“I don’t need you to be nice. I need you to leave me well alone.”

For a good moment, Harry decides to do just that—walk away, leave Draco to steam in his own furious little storm. There’s no rhyme nor logic to his reaction, and the more Harry mulls it over, the less he understands.

He is also rather persistent.

“Draco,” says Harry. “What is bothering you? Talk to me.”

“What is bothering me?” Draco stands rock-still, face pinched. “What is bothering me. My father beat me because I had the nerve to take your side—to just be me, make my own choices. He beat my mother, too; I heard him thrashing her around the parlour. But it’s only after he beat me that she did anything, as if her life and her pain matter less.”

Then Draco drops down to his bed. “I am  _ here _ because my own home is unsafe. A walking corpse holds the loyalty of my friends’ parents and all I can do here is hide away safely without any knowledge of what’s happening to them. All because  _ their _ mothers don’t have the courage, or perhaps the mind, to think of their children. How’s that for fairness? Why do I get a good summer whilst my friends get to be pulled on the wrong side of the war without their consent? Because we all know how this ends, right?” He looks at Harry, eyes glistening. “We win, and they get put away for the crimes of their parents. If any of them even survive.”

“I’m sure there’s another—”

“Don’t,” says Draco. He holds up his hand. “Don’t act like you care about them.”

Offended, Harry stands up, fists balled. “Maybe I don’t,” he says, “but I care about  _ you _ . And you care about them. So maybe we can talk to the Order. To Dumbledore. There are options.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “They could flee. They could stay. They could become spies. No matter which they choose, their lives are at risk.”

“Ours are too!” Harry bristles. “We’re safe here, sure. But what about when we go out there? We’re being pulled into a war too, you know? For God’s sake—I’m prophesied to be the only one to be able to defeat Voldemort. You think that’s safe? You’re my  _ boyfriend _ . You think you’re safe?”

“So this is it,” says Draco.  “War. This is what it looks like.” He sighs. “I hate it.”

It’s only then that Harry sits again, rounds the bed and takes place next to Draco. In a fluid movement, Draco leans his head against Harry’s chest, a pillow pressed comfortably between them.

“Was this our first fight?” Harry asks, laughing shakily. Relief fills his very being.

Draco smiles. “I think so. I’m glad it was short.”

“How long have you been keeping that in?”

No answer comes directly. Draco shifts a little, curling his legs. With the fight dissipated, Harry has the patience to wait. It’s good like this, knowing he hasn’t blown anything up, hasn’t torn what they have to pieces. Draco had clearly needed to let out his frustration; Harry is intimately familiar with the feeling.

“A couple of weeks, I think,” says Draco. “I just...can’t help but think I got lucky, in all of this. But war is war, and it takes even from the most fortunate.”


	11. The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good tides and better tidings.

The very next day, they set out to a beach. This is Salah’s decree, uttered entirely on impulse but with great authority. Harry, who doesn’t even own swimming trunks, has one of his less-favoured trousers transfigured and ready to go before he can properly articulate that he can’t swim, has in fact never swum before and would appreciate not drowning on such a beautiful, sunny day.

“Really,” he says, “I  _ cannot _ swim.”

“What do you mean you can’t  _ swim _ ,” says Draco, scandalised, “You—the second task took place in the Great Lake—”

“That was with Gillyweed,” Harry retorts. “And only thanks to Neville.”

“I don’t have that on hand right now,” Godric says pensively, as if Gillyweed is the sort of thing one  _ keeps around in one’s pockets _ . He turns to Salah, “Do you?”

Harry interrupts before she can answer, because the madwoman can probably make some out of thin air. “I didn’t particularly enjoy the experience. I mean, it was great  _ under _ water, but I’m not keen on a repeat.”

Salah shrugs. “I’m sure it can’t be too difficult to keep you floating.”

They go to a beach in Northumberland by car; it sits below the ruins of a castle. Somewhere on the other side is a fishing hamlet that Harry sees in passing. This is officially the most Harry has ever seen of the North of England short of all the landscape viewing he had done from the Hogwarts Express.

It’s not a beautiful beach by his reckoning, nothing at all like the clear blue sea and white sand Harry has seen on television, with a voice claiming low prices for vacations in the Caribbean. Still, there is something breathtaking about being able to stand there, rocks under his feet, and look upon the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle. The rush of the waves is continuous and soft.

“So much work,” says Godric, “so much decay.” He too gazes upon the castle, and Harry almost want to see what his dad—dad!—does. To him the walls are as they are: crumbled, old, empty. At some point in its life, the castle must have been brimming with life. Now it is a relic.

“Hey, dad,” says Harry. The taste of that is yet new, its form strange, unfamiliar. Harry has pieced together his family, and now his tongue must learn to curl around the words, the terms, the  _ feelings _ .

Godric hums, his attention still on the horizon. He walks slowly with Harry towards the shore; ahead, Draco and Salah have gone into the blue waves, and the wind carries their wordless voices over to their ears.

Harry says, “I suppose I just wanted to say that. To practice.”

A smile. Godric’s eyes briefly flit over to Harry, green like jades, like Lily’s, like Harry’s. Somewhere, all of this must have converged, must have always been in the Fates’ design for Harry. Godric says, “Do continue. Practice is good for the soul.”

They don’t force him into the water, even if Draco does threaten with it once. Godric stays at the shore with Harry, their feet a couple of centimeters in the salty water. It seems to stretch out for miles, waves that glisten in the sun. The Great Lake had been different, dark, dangerous—a task, completed. Nothing in it had been kind or soft; it had been another world that had lurked beneath the surface.

“Nothing close to land will eat you,” Godric says softly. “Not even sharks will. Human flesh isn’t all that tasty to them.”

“Do you read minds?” Harry says.

A laugh. “No. But a little white bird told me you have swum in the Great Lake. I know what dwells there, and they are not always kind.”

The words almost spill from Harry’s mouth, but he needn’t tell; Godric’s eyes tell him enough. Time has not diluted those eerie waters nor its residents, and there’s something in that that Harry can respect. It is untouched.

“I truly need to have more words with Dumbledore on student safety,” Godric mutters. “Salah informed me that students have detention in the forest. Mind, it wasn’t  _ dangerous _ in our time, but if it’s supposed to be forbidden, why send children there for punishment?”

The unicorn—silver, beautiful, dying—comes to Harry in a vivid flash. He’d never stopped to think about the detention itself; why, indeed, had Draco and he been sent to such a place? Granted, Hagrid had been there and still frequently gives lessons at its outskirts, but there is no valid reason to send  _ first-years _ , certainly not  _ at night. _

“The third floor was forbidden, too,” Harry remarks. When Godric frowns, he explains, “My first year. Dumbledore meant to guard the Philosopher’s Stone, and so they’d put it up on the third floor and had Fluffy the three-headed dog guard it…”

He ends up retelling the entire story. Salah and Draco have moved near enough now that they can hear most, if not all, of it.

“And he fell to the ground, burning up…” Harry finishes slowly. Throughout his explanation, he’d gotten an increasing sensation of horrified fury from Godric, and he doesn’t exactly dare look at Salah.

“So that’s what happened,” Draco says faintly. “None of the gossip got it right. Or quite so gruesome.”

If he squints, he can see Godric vibrate. Possibly.

“Look,” says Harry, “it’s really not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?” Salah says, voice pitching dangerously. “Harry, from the moment you stepped into Hogwarts, has there been a time where you’ve not been in grave danger?” She looks over at Draco. “Have any of the students honestly been safe? Two Horcruxes, a starved basilisk, a traitorous rat, countless Dementors looking for the wrong person, a tournament  _ known _ for claiming students’ lives…”

“We built Hogwarts to be safe,” Godric says. “We wanted students to master the craft in a place they could call home. Nothing you’ve gone through in the last five years qualifies.” He shakes his head. “We need to have some serious words with the Headmaster. Hogwarts may have once been the safest place in the Wizarding world, but that doesn’t mean he can harbour dangerous objects there.”

Discomfited, Harry looks at his feet. The water is clear, and the sand between his toes is fine, almost pleasant. “I didn’t want to ruin the day.”

“Oh, darling, you haven’t,” says Godric. He places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezes. “This just gives us a clearer picture to work with.”

Still Harry feels he’s dropped a dungbomb on the day. It doesn’t even stay sunny for long; clouds gather overhead, an unthreatening light grey. Draco pulls Harry further into the water; they can still stand, but any further and Harry thinks he’ll just sink like a boulder.

Behind him, Salah has gone to shore and dried off. Godric and she speak too quietly to hear, and Harry’s not yet learnt how to read lips.

“What’s a boy got to do to get some attention,” Draco says.

“Sorry.” Harry pulls Draco closer, till they’re nose to nose. “I just…”

“I know.” A sigh. “I can’t believe I used to think you were just an attention-seeker who got a free pass for being the Gryffindor favourite.”

“It’s not like you knew better…”

“But I did.” Draco shakes his head. “I was a bully. Besides, this isn’t about me. This is about the fact that you’ve been through some truly and remarkably insane things.” He glances over at the shore, where Salah and Godric are still in intense discussion. “They’re right, you know? We’ve not been safe, not truly. And let’s not forget we went to battle at the Ministry just two months ago…”

_ Potter is a boy _ , Godric had said to Moody, to everyone,  _ young, untrained, vulnerable.  _ Some part of Harry still bristles at that; he’s not just a boy—many terrible things have come his way, and he has survived them through sheer skill and willpower.

But out here at the open sea, after two months of a rather blissful summer, he can see the jagged edges around his life. He  _ is _ just a boy; they’re all just children thrown into battle without so much as a warning, without preparation. Dursleys notwithstanding, every moment Harry has spent in the wizarding world has been tinged with danger, with another threat lurking, waiting to strike.

And where have the adults been, then? Dumbledore, or even at the very least McGonagall, must’ve known the Dursleys had put Harry in the cupboard under the stairs; they must’ve seen the address. Where had any of the adults been when Quirrell had so easily snuck past the defences they’d put in place, when Voldemort had manipulated Ginny into opening the Chamber, where had they been between all the dementors, the  _ Tournament _ , when someone should have just stepped up and said  _ “No, absolutely not.” _

McGonagall had protested. It hadn’t done a lot of good, but at least she’d tried.

“Hmm,” says Draco, “that look says mutiny.”

“I’m starting to see what Godric and Salah are so upset about.”

Their little family has a picnic on the beach, sat on a large blanket with blue and white squares. By this time, the beach has filled up a bit, mostly with tourists and far more children running loose than Harry thinks is sane. Despite the sun’s disappearance, the day is still pretty, and the grey casts a rather ominous look upon the castle above. It’s almost like they’re back at Hogwarts, staring up at it from the side of the lake—but for the jitter of children’s laughter, and the scent of salt water.

Draco’s cheeks are a bit rosy from the earlier sun, and it’s so pretty Harry loses the battle between reason and the urge to stare at his boyfriend. This image will probably haunt his dreams, which is  _ good _ and also so, so, so  _ terrible— _

A quick flash makes him jump, thinking it’s lightning. Draco laughs so hard he falls over, rolls unto his back as his shoulders shake.

It’s Salah, with a camera. She has it briefly rest on her belly as she laughs at Harry.

As he glowers at Salah for her sneakiness, Draco sits up and kisses his cheek, which of course makes Harry smile. Salah snaps two shots before Harry is even able to protest, but he’s not  _ against it _ , really; it’s just that the only people who have been taking his pictures are reporters and—

And this is better. This is for them.

“These will go atop the fireplace, methinks,” Salah murmurs. “And copies for the photo album…”

Harry gets to take one of Salah and Godric—not posed, but just naturally as they talk and laugh. He takes several of Draco, of the beach and the castle. Finally, before they leave, Godric levitates the camera in front of them so they can have a family photo, Harry’s arm slung around Draco’s shoulder, Salah and Godric grinning behind them.

They’re home an hour before dinner, time enough for a shower and change of clothes. Draco and Harry race upstairs for no other reason than that they can, and then Draco pins Harry against a wall and kisses him as if it is an imperative, burning with  _ something _ akin to fire before his footsteps carry him away.

Left breathless, Harry laughs.

***

As they settle into the afternoon, an owl comes for Godric. Harry half expects it to be about the Order again; they haven’t bothered Godric in a while now.

“Sirius is awake,” is the pronouncement.

It’s not a mad scramble per se, but they do hurry to get to St. Mungo’s. London’s skies are overcast and ominous. It’s unnatural in a way to makes Harry’s skin crawl, but he ignores it in favour of better things: Sirius is awake. His potion has worked, and finally, finally, he can have a godfather.

Remus meets them halfway in the reception area, which is a feat considering the  _ frenzy _ everyone seems to be in.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Remus asks them by way of greeting. “They won’t say anything.”

“No,” says Salah, “but we have other priorities right now.”

It takes far too long to get to the right ward, and Harry has so much pent up energy when they get to it that he nearly jumps Sirius for a hug. His godfather coughs in a way that sounds more like laughter, and a great weight leaves Harry shoulders.

“I missed you so much!” says Harry. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever wake…”

“Well, I did,” Sirius croaks, voice thin from disuse. Remus passes him a glass of water. “Seems the world’s gone a bit bonkers in the meantime, though.”

“The Brockdale Bridge has collapsed,” a Healer informs them once Salah has ordered everyone around them to stop moving. “Death Eater attack.” Rather than seem surprised, Salah curses and shoots an annoyed look at Godric.

“Casualties?” asks he, now a grim spread to his lips.

A sole giant, they learn, an hour later. By this time, Sirius has been propped up in his bed and casts a nervous, albeit alert, look towards Salah, who has seated herself at the foot of his bed. Draco looks out the window, which is all the upset he’s deigned to show since the news had come in.

Of course the Dark Mark, black and in the shape of a dark cloud had loomed over the site of the crash. Draco had gone quiet since, and Harry tries to give him the space. St. Mungo’s itself has calmed down from its earlier frenzy; the few injuries that had come through had not been severe, and only three people would need to stay overnight.

At least, as far as Godric is aware. A butterfly Patronus had just whispered to him in—

“What language was that?” Harry asks as he idly watches the Patronus flutter away.

“Dutch,” Godric says brusquely.

“Does it always sound like a mess of  _ something _ trying to mate with Parseltongue at the back of someone’s throat?” 

Still on the bed, Salah makes several noises as if she wants to speak but  _ can’t _ ; eventually she just settles on laughter, hunched over and trying not to choke. Godric sends Harry a wry look, one that somehow also conveys ‘ _ please don’t kill my wife’,  _ which Harry will  _ try _ , but it’s not like he has control over how funny he is.

Once recovered and no longer giggling, Salah clears her throat and directs herself to Godric, face serious. “We should have let our people handle this.”

“No,” Godric says. “We already know our capabilities. This was their test.”

“They  _ failed _ ,” Salah says, as if a reminder. “Magnificently.”

Harry has long since given up trying to understand anything that comes out of that particular corner, especially in that imperial tone. Salah and Godric decide on their own when they want to be informative; when they need Harry to understand, they will tell. For the time being, he patiently awaits for a Healer to discharge Sirius so that they can all just go  _ home. _

“I’m sorry,” says Sirius, directing a curious look at Salah and Godric, “who are you exactly? And why are you  _ here? _ ”

Harry holds his breath.

“Marchioness Salah Alaia Zaahir, de la Casa Serpentina, founder of Hogwarts,” says she, “Salah will do just fine, thank you.”

“Count Godric Hereweald Oswine of Griffon’s Door,” says he, which is the exact point when Sirius’ eyes grow large and do a double take. “Yes, I am  _ that _ Godric, founder of Hogwarts.”

For a good minute or so, Sirius just stares at them. Then he bursts out laughing. “That’s a good joke, mate, but the founders are long dead. And none of them was called Salah,” he says with a mocking look thrown at her.

Remus places a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “They’re not lying. They really are Godric Gryffindor and…” He throws an uncertain look at Salah.

“Do  _ not _ call me Salazar Slytherin,” says she. Then, she turns her full attention on Sirius. “We’re here because Harry is here and he is currently one of our wards. Besides that, I gently convinced the ministry into releasing you into my custody whilst they sort out the mess they made by imprisoning you without a trial.”

Godric snorts. “You mean, you steamrolled all over them, put their incompetence on full display, and twisted their arm into letting him stay here under your supervision.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I just said.”

Judging by the look on his face, Sirius has no idea how to take all of this, not in the face of Remus and Harry reiterating that yes, these are indeed the founders of Hogwarts in the flesh. At last Sirius looks at Draco, “You’re Cissa’s boy, yeah? You look just like her.”

Surprised, Draco blinks. Still, poised and calm, he says, “Hello, cousin. It’s nice to see you awake and well.”

Another twenty minutes and the Healers finally decide they can discharge Sirius, most likely because Salah looks about an inch away from inflicting bodily harm if someone in hospital doesn’t become functional and efficient  _ soon. _

As happy as Harry is to be away from St. Mungo’s, he’s not too thrilled about Grimmauld Place. It certainly looks  _ better _ , but somehow it doesn’t feel like a homely place, like something uncanny still lingers, unwilling to let go.

They’re all crowded in the doorway, taking off coats and such. It’s a bit tight, considering how opulent the rest of the house is, and so they’re stuck in this awkward dance around each other. Mostly Harry is afraid he’ll bump against Salah and her belly; she’s not  _ fragile, _ but the baby probably is, and he’s not about to cause early traumas for his sister—

Someone else bumps something, probably with their foot. The troll-leg shaped umbrella stand goes down, Draco mutters, “Shite,” and Harry’s entire body just—

“—BLOOD TRAITORS, FILTHY HALF-BREEDS AND MUDBLOODS, _FREAKS_ , STAINS UPON MY NOBLE H—”

_ Somehow _ Salah is right there, in front of the portrait. Godric has gotten hold of Draco, who has gone a deathly pale colour and looks ready to just make a run for it; Harry almost checks Draco’s pulse just to be sure his boyfriend’s still truly alive. Remus has the good sense to set the troll-leg aright.

“Hello, Walburga Black,” Salah says over the screeching, the picture of serenity. “I will thank you for  _ shutting up _ .” Immediately, with just those words between them, Walburga goes quiet, mouth flapping like a drowning fish. “Thank you. That is much better.”

Kreacher graces them with his presence a second later, but becomes as tongue-tied as his mistress when he lays eyes upon Salah. He must  _ know _ somehow, who she is; he bows.

“The ancient and noble House of Black is being blessed with the presence of the most esteemed Salazar Slytherin,” Kreacher says.

“ _ Don’t _ call me that,” says Salah, irritated. “You know my real name.”

The elf bows again. “Of course, Mistress De Serpentina.” Then he turns and spots Sirius, and Kreacher’s lips turn downwards.  “Master Sirius has returned.”

“Hello, Kreacher,” says Sirius. He doesn’t sneer for once, still too surprised at Salah.

“Well,” says Salah, releasing a breath, “now that we have some peace, why don’t we make it better with some tea? Yes?”

Remus sighs. “I’d like some. But first I have to make a call.” He goes upstairs, careful not to disturb anything—habit, more than anything now, as the threat is well gone and neutralised.

They move to the parlour. Harry, much more used to the kitchen, takes in the clean, lush cushions and the dark hues in the decoration with some awe; the doxies have gone, as has the dust, the cobwebs, and the general sense of a decaying home. He’s still not comfortable here, especially not after Walburga’s reintroduction into his ears, but it’s not like she’ll be a problem.

“How did you do that?” Sirius asks Salah. “I’ve never had this much tranquility in my life. Not in this house anyway.”

“Willpower,” Salah tells him. “It’s a beautiful, useful thing.”

Their next task is to inform Sirius of everything he’s missed, which is  _ a lot _ given that barely two months have gone by. Harry rattles off all the important things he can remember on the spot—his new home, his birthday, his experience with the Resurrection Stone, his cloak (which Sirius thinks is impossible, “but it explains a lot, actually), and of course, how can he forget: he’s descended from Salah and Godric.

“Huh,” says Sirius, eyes almost glassy, “descended from Godric Gryffindor himself. Your father would have never shut up about it if he’d known.”

“What am I,” says Salah, “chopped liver?”

Harry can’t help it, “A perfectly shaped gourd.”

For an entire second he is almost  _ certain _ Salah will outright murder him, but when she turns to glare at him, she immediately bursts out laughing. She ends up coughing horrendously, with Godric patting her back  as she tries to regain her composure and not  _ die _ on the spot.

“Stop trying to kill my wife,” Godric says over Salah’s shaking form. His glare holds no heat whatsoever.

“Wait,” says Sirius, disbelieving, “you’re  _ married? _ ”

“Many people are indeed surprised we’re married,” says Godric. Salah leans against him for support, still in a fit of giggles. “Legend says we were but two good friends who had a terrible row.”

Sirius looks between the two of them, somewhere between confused and horrified. “You married Salazar Slytherin?”

“No,” Godric says, with an air of someone quickly running out of patience. “I married Salah Zaahir de la Casa Serpentina. Salazar Slytherin is—” He turns to Salah. “How did you put it, darling?”

“A myth,” says she, “a figment created to suit a particular narrative.” Salah sighs. “I’m getting rather tired of repeating that.”

Still, Sirius eyes her suspiciously. “And how are you still alive? You’d be thousands of years old by now. You should be dead.”

“We made a deal with an entity,” says Godric, which exactly what he’d told Harry, too, but he can’t help but feel there’s more to it than that.

Salah catches his gaze and gives a slight nod. Another time, then, another place. He can wait.

Any more questions from Sirius are stalled when Remus appears in the doorway. He looks a bit miffed, not that Harry blames him; Grimmauld Place isn’t the happiest place to be, even with how polished it looks now. Then Remus says, “The Order’s coming in for a meeting,” and Harry  _ sympathises _ with the tired tone of voice.

“Of course,” says Salah. Sirius just shrugs.

They have a total of two minutes before Professor McGonagall arrives, and the barrage of Order members follow on her heels like children tugged along on a string. Professor McGonagall at least has manners enough to greet them all; the other folk streaming in are far too busy chittering about the collapsed bridge, the dead giant, and the sheer headache it’s been to conceal it all from ‘Muggles’.

From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Salah’s jaw set. Draco looks pained every time someone says the M-word, and he’s eying Salah as if she were a ticking bomb. For once, Harry would  _ love _ to see that one explode.

Dumbledore arrives last. For the leader of the group, Harry finds this a bit lacking, though it’s not like Dumbledore doesn’t have a flair for dramatics, or a good sense for making spectacular, eye-catching entrances. 

The eye-bleed robes help.

“Sirius,” says Dumbledore, “It’s good to see you with us.”

“It’s good to be awake,” Sirius responds. “I don’t particularly agree with the choice of scenery, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Only then do the congratulations come in, with praise for Healers who do such good work. Harry  _ almost _ tells them about his potion, but something near his gut tells him to just keep it to himself, at least for now; all of his writings on the Moly and the potion are at home and rather disorganised. Until he’s put it all together, he’s not about to present his creation and have these particular adults scrutinise it to pieces.

He has to step on Draco’s foot when his boyfriend opens his mouth to protest. Draco sends him a glare but at least appears to understand.

Salah raises a brow at him. He shakes his head, but needn’t have worried; Salah merely burrows closer into Godric’s embrace.

And of course the main topic is still the Brockdale Bridge. “I’m surprised the casualty list is so meager,” says Tonks. “Glad, but still surprised.”

With a bland sort of look, Salah says, “We had our people stationed nearby just in case. The attack came later than we anticipated, but come it did.”

The room goes quiet for a split second. Even Harry has to pause to take it in, but maybe the conversation at St. Mungo’s makes a bit more sense now. Just a bit.

“You knew this was going to happen,” says Moody, “But you said nothing.”

Affronted, Salah stares at him. It’s still Godric who answers, which all in all is safer for everyone involved, especially Moody. “We passed along the information three weeks ago. What the Order does with it is up to its leader.”

A chill goes down Harry’s spine. Not for the first time, all eyes are on Dumbledore, questions unspoken. The challenge is there, hangs in the air like a noose.

“I was uncertain I could trust the information,” Dumbledore says. “And the specific location was unknown.”

Godric almost looks insulted. “I gave it to you myself. I even updated you when the report came in that the Giants had mobilised. There was a list of possible locations. With the Orders help, we could have intercepted them and stopped the entire attack. Why would I  _ lie _ to you?”

“Why would you not?” Dumbledore counters. “You’ve not always been honest about who you are. And now you seem keen on wanting to test the Order’s capabilities.”

“Lives are at stake, Dumbledore,” says Salah. She breaks away from Godric “We need to know if you can work with us. We have given you a chance for an alliance, and yet you squander it over petty things. This is war; you would do well to cultivate your allies.”

With that, she is done. Whatever else Dumbledore wants to say seems irrelevant; Harry and Draco follow her out of the room, Godric close behind. Harry doesn’t want to leave just yet, not with Sirius still here, but at the moment it is out of his hands.

Their return to Griffon’s Door is glum. It’s still too early for bed, so they settle together in the parlour, a low fire in the hearth. Draco has his sketchbook and Harry their joint notes on the Wolfsbane potion. It still has to sit in the cauldron until Friday before they can safely try it on Remus, so they are perfectly on schedule.

Draco taps his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell them you were the one who brought your godfather back?”

He has everyone’s attention now. Harry sighs. “I don’t think any of them would have believed me, really. I’m not exactly known for being a star at potions. All the proof was here, at the house. And if they  _ did _ believe me, they would make such a big fuss about it…”

“Harry, it  _ is _ a big deal!” says Draco. “You just cured a man from something that had the Healers baffled!”

“Whilst I do agree with you, Draco,” Godric says, “I also understand Harry’s point.” He looks at Harry. “I suppose you’d like to present your experiment when it’s nicely organised? It could be very helpful in upcoming times.”

“I’ll work on it,” says Harry, still dismayed at the attention. “It’s not that I’m not  _ proud _ of it or anything, but it  _ is _ my work...I’m not ready to share it with just about everyone. Not yet, anyway.”

“We’re very proud of you, you know?” says Salah. Draco nods along vigorously. “We may not have said it at the time, but you’ve improved in leaps and bounds. Like Draco said, you did something extraordinary for your godfather.”

His cheeks burn, but he accepts the compliment with a nod. Draco bumps shoulders with him, and thankfully that’s the end of  _ that _ discussion.

Wolfsbane notes overseen, Harry moves next to Occlumency. It’s with some ease now that he can trace the shape of his own mind and exclude everything that is  _ not _ . Nothing as terrifying has happened since the incident in his private chambers; so long as his shielding holds, Harry’s mind is well. If he concentrates, breathes in sharp, he can almost see how to cut the Horcrux away, to sever the leech and be free.

But no. Not yet.

Cinnamon, like his mother, honey, his father. It’s almost like incense, but they are there. Patience. His father hugs him.

When Harry opens his eyes, they are gone again, distant. Winky hands him tea, and Dobby places a tray of biscuits on the low table. Salah and Godric have huddled together under a blanket now, and any moment Salah could happily doze off. Before Harry can even sip at his tea, the flames of the hearth flare up.

Remus steps out, Sirius hot on his heels. Almost with a terse pause, Severus Snape follows; the latter two men waste no time to glare daggers at each other. At least they’re not  _ talking _ ; Harry doesn’t want to know exactly how many words it would take before the two of them come to blows.

“You know,” Godric says patiently, “when we gave the two of you the exact name of this place, it wasn’t so that you could barge in without warning.”

“Sorry,” says Remus, “We had a small window of opportunity to get here without anyone hearing where we went. They staged an argument, actually,” he looks between Sirius and Severus, “it was convincing.”

“What do you mean,  _ staged _ ,” Sirius says, snarling.

Chin raised, Severus says, “I meant every word.”

“Gentlemen,” says Salah, a lovely, sharp smile on her lips, “may I remind you that I alone am allowed to spill blood in this home? Please,  _ sit _ .”

Sirius bares his teeth, but all three of the men take seat. Godric appoints them their places—Remus and Sirius together next to Harry, Severus on Salah’s right. As that still leaves them across from each other, Harry is not entirely convinced that there’s enough space between them. Severus, at least, decides that ignoring his old school rivals is the safest course at the moment.

Draco has to scoot closer to Harry and, without thinking, Harry throws an arm over. It’s not entirely obvious, especially as Draco does not lean in like he usually does—probably because Severus raises a brow.

“Now,” Salah intones, voice still sweet as honey, “why are you here?”

Severus answers, “Dumbledore.” His eyes are dark, face impassive. “It concerns me that you passed information along and he did nothing with it.”

“Concerns us all, really,” Remus says with a look at Severus, “If you’d not been prepared to intervene, what would have happened today? You said you could have intercepted the giants with our help…”

“Yes,” Godric confirms matter-of-factly. “Granted, we could have done the same with our own network, but it would have meant abruptly pulling some people from operations that we would rather not disrupt. We did what we could.”

“Which is more than the Order did,” Sirius mutters. Draco snorts.

Severus carefully eyes Salah, then lets his eyes go to Godric. “When you say ‘network’...”

The answer is a flat look from Salah. It’s answer enough for Severus, but Harry now burns with a curiosity; his parents have lived for an incredibly long time, so it stands to reason they have gathered a wide array of allies. Calling it a  _ network _ means it’s nothing quite like the Order, more like a group of connections and strings waiting to be pulled, for the right time to make a move.

“ _ I’d _ like to know what this network is,” Sirius says loudly. Remus puts a hand on Sirius’ knee, shakes his head.

Godric says, “It’s not the first time Dumbledore has ignored some information I’ve sent his way. It  _ is _ the first time he’s ignored something that’s come directly from my hands, which leads me to believe he’s still a bit stroppy about me having been a spy all along.”

“Minerva asked him about that,” says Remus. “You’re Godric Gryffindor after all. He told her that we hardly know you at all, especially given how historical records have now been proven faulty.”

After a pause, “ _ Really? _ That’s the angle he’s going for?” Godric rolls his eyes.

“What  _ is _ the angle he’s going for?” Draco asks suddenly. “What is he playing at? He does want to win this war, right? Ignoring valuable information because of its source is  _ stupid. _ ”

“You remember I said,” Godric says, mostly to Salah, “that I  _ shouldn’t _ have needed to give him the information on the giants? When they mobilise, it’s  _ noticeable. _ Given a few days, someone else working for Dumbledore would have probably told him.”

“But no one else knew,” Severus points out. “I wasn’t aware of this attack until an hour before The Dark Lord issued the command.”

Remus chimes in, “But we’ve known since Hagrid came back that You-Know-Who had gotten the giants on his side. It was only a matter of time before he used them for something. We should have had someone monitor the situation.”

_ Godric did, _ thinks Harry. He can’t help but think back to the previous winter, when Hagrid had returned beaten and bloody. Hermione had asked Salah to come down and help mend Hagrid’s wounds, correctly surmising that she would have the skill. In hindsight, it had put Salah in just the right time and place to gather valuable information, if whatever ‘network’ she and Godric have hadn’t already told them.

Salah raises her brow. “In the grand scheme of things, the Brockdale Bridge’s destruction is not that important. If anything, it is a display of Voldemort’s power, a show put on the strike fear in the hearts of his opponents. It is meaningless in and of itself—just a lavish reminder of the threat he poses. Or the flailings of a little brat who wants attention.”

Harry frowns. “But people could have died!”

“Yes,” Salah says simply, “but which people?”

It rings in Harry’s ears, knocks about in his mind. The Brockdale Bridge is nothing like the Tower Bridge, or even the London Bridge, both historical bastions, but it  _ is _ without a doubt one of the bridges in the centre of non-magical London—

“You can’t be serious,” says Draco, breaking the stunned silence. “You’re saying Albus Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the man who duelled  _ Grindelwald _ and  _ won _ , would consider Mu—non-magical lives expendable?”

“For the greater good?” says Godric. “Yes.”

“I haven’t said anything,” says Salah, a sharp look at her husband. “I’m merely pointing out what I see.”

Even Sirius has nothing to say, he just looks at Remus as if the man will explain all of this to him in a way that will make sense. Remus is struck speechless, eyes fixed to his fingers where they rest on Sirius’ knee. A brick settles uncomfortably at the pit of Harry’s stomach, indigestible.

“What do you see?” Severus asks Salah.

“To be honest,” says Salah, “I’m not entirely sure. I see many things. Details. I can’t grasp the bigger picture yet and it’s bugging the hell out of me. Out there exists a thread that will unravel all of this, but I cannot find it.”

They sit with that between them, up in the air. It’s uncomfortable, cold, stretching. Dumbledore’s voice echoes in Harry’s mind,  _ Should I have told you then? _ The answer is yes, always yes, burden or no. And if Dumbledore hadn’t wanted to share that, something so pivotal in Harry’s life and existence, then what else is he not sharing? 

Harry has to ask, “So what do we do?”

“We watch,” says Godric.

“Closely,” Salah adds. “God knows what dying men can do in their final throes.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sirius, rather calmly, considering. “ _ Dying? _ ”

Salah turns all her attention on him. “Oh, I have such  _ wonderful _ news for you…”


	12. The Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New wands, new revelations. A whole new world of discomfort and suspicion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm late. Got carried away practicing for driving theory exam. 
> 
> If I post next Friday it means I survived unharmed lol

“Your wands can’t be your only weapons,” Godric says early Monday morning. Harry is certain he’s heard Godric say this before, but he can’t picture the time or place. It doesn’t matter; today will be a truly exciting one.

Sirius, who had come along with Remus, shrugs. “We can’t all wield swords, you know? They’re not incredibly popular these days.”

Godric looks at them with the patience of a man who has had to explain this many times and will have to do so again. Then, without breaking eye-contact (Sirius lasts about five seconds), Godric pulls a gun from his back and at least three knives from places Harry can’t even keep track of. They are shiny, expensive things, strong and rather incongruous with everything Harry knows of the wizarding world.

“Actually,” Harry says, eying the gun, “what are the chances of a bullet making it through a shield charm?”

“Unlikely,” says Godric. “At least, if you cast it right.”

Impressed, Sirius crosses his arms. “Lily told us what these can do.”

For his part, Draco eyes the weapons warily. They’re new and unknown; even Harry’s never seen them up close, but he is familiar with the concept of them, has seen them used on screen, in films. Knives are easy; everyone has met a knife. Guns are a non-magical menace, one that requires a five year certificate.

“It’s a hassle,” Godric explains, “and the only time I willingly deal with the police. However, I will insist each of you carry at least one knife and  _ know _ how to use it, both lethally and non-lethally.”

Somehow, they veer into a lesson of anatomy. By the end of it Harry is aware of exactly where the carotid artery is and could potentially kill a man, if it comes down to it. Seeing as the only man he will have to get blood on his hands for is Voldemort, he still has to figure out how to get close enough to reach the snake-man’s throat.

Godric also insists they get spare wands. They have to drag Remus away from Amat’s portrait before they can depart; the two have become thick as thieves, with Amat often travelling to another frame to talk to Remus. She had confided in Harry that it is rather refreshing to have another werewolf to talk to, even if Remus still thinks it’s a terrible curse.

As neither Harry nor Draco has mastered  _ Desplazamiento _ yet, Godric hauls them along. No matter how many times Harry experiences it, he still finds it horrible and jarring, his entire body squeezed through the narrow opening of a bottle. He’s at least gotten better at landing gracefully, no longer stumbling like a newborn fawn who’s just learnt it has legs.

They find themselves upon a heath. Off in the distance sits a stone cottage, with a stone path unveiling itself as they near. An old, wizened man waits for them outside the door, his face and clothes familiar, his stance poised, regal, eyes silvery grey—

“Ollivander?” says Remus, “Garrick Ollivander?”

“Remus Lupin,” comes the thin, raspy voice, “10¼ from a beautiful Cypress tree, unicorn hair at its core. Pliable, loyal, non-aggressive...but strong, unwavering.”

“That’s almost disturbing,” Draco says lightly.

Ollivander’s eyes snap to him. “I know every wand I have made, young master Malfoy, as well as every child they have chosen.” Then, just as smoothly as before, he adds, “Hawthorne, 10 inches, a complex wood for a wizard full of contradictions. Unicorn hair at its core, incorruptible, like the one who masters it.”

Then comes Sirius, “Lustrous ebony, 11 inches, combative but kind, non-conformist all the same. At its heart sits a unicorn hair.” Ollivander peers at Sirius. “This wand was lost to you, hmm? Lucky that I have another.”

Before Sirius has time to splutter, wondering how in all of creation Ollivander can know such a thing, the wandmaster has moved on to Harry. “Young mister Potter. Holly, the temperamental. Twin to another, the only two I’ve bonded with phoenix feather for a core. A difficult wand, but I hear it has served you well?”

Harry would answer—the wand has certainly kept him  _ alive _ all this time. But Ollivander had already set his eyes upon Godric, who stares at the old man impassively as Ollivander scrutinises him.

“You, I have not granted a wand.”

Godric snorts. “I would be concerned if you had, considering my age. Ash, 12½ inches. Didn’t work with cores back in our day, but I remade it with a phoenix feather.”

“Stubborn,” Ollivander mutters, “courageous, of course, talented in a wide range of magic. And yet he has the markings of a warrior to him…”

“And that’s why I also have a Blackthorn wand,” Godric says, grinning. “That one was trickier to craft, mind you. Shall we go inside?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he strides past Ollivander and through the open door.

Ollivander sighs. “Come on, then.”

Inside, the lighting is dim. It’s eerily reminiscent of the shop in Diagon Alley, though not filled to the brim with boxes upon boxes of wands. The scent of freshly cut woods mixes well with a faint hint of lavender, but Harry cannot pin down the source of the latter. It’s all rather cozy, though.

“I trust you find yourself well,” Godric says to Ollivander, “we’re working on getting you the rest of the supplies you requested.”

The wandmaker rummages through a chest, hums in what seems to be a positive reply. Unoffended, Godric settles into a wooden chair that is just the bit too short for his long legs, but he solves this by stretching out.

The rest of them, awkward, wait for Ollivander to find whatever thing it is he seeks. A lot of things call Harry’s attention—the branches, all different shades and types of wood, the collection of dried heartstrings nearby, a jar of oil. The workbench alone would take him a year to process.

Draco moves closer to him. Automatically, they twine their fingers, and Harry can almost  _ feel _ Draco vibrate with excitement. They’re at the heart of a wandmaker’s workroom, a privilege few have ever had.

“Aha!” Ollivander says. All of them, except for Godric, jump about a meter back. With a rather pleased look, Ollivander presents Sirius with a box. “Ebony, 11 inches, with unicorn hair at its core. Like your old wand. Try it.”

Sirius takes to it with a relish; the wand responds with sparks, and Sirius smiles widely. “I missed this,” he says. “Dear old papa’s spare wand could never hold a candle next to this.”

“Ah, yes, spares,” says Ollivander. “Those are tricky.” He presents Sirius with another box then. “Dogwood, 10⅕ inches. Unicorn hair.”

For a moment, Harry can almost  _ see _ the comment Sirius is going to make, but Remus steps on Sirius’ foot and they are all collectively saved the embarrassment. Harry takes the moment to find somewhere to sit; if they’re visiting a wandmaker, it’s likely they’re all being treated to spare wands, and so they will be here for some time.

Naturally, there aren’t a great deal of places to sit, and the floor doesn’t look too appealing. Standing it is, then.

It takes Sirius three wands to find a fitting one—Spruce, 11 inches, unicorn hair.

“Ahh,” says Ollivander. “This one requires a firm hand, a bold spell-caster with a good sense of humour. Good, good. It took a bit of craftiness to make this wand; it will serve you well and loyally.”

Remus is next; Ollivander takes one good look at him and presents him with an wand made of Alder, 10 inches, with phoenix feather as its core. Remus shakes his head, “I don’t require a—”

“Oh, just accept the gift, won’t you,” says Godric. “We’re feeling magnanimous, and you never know when you’ll need it.”

Almost as if it pains him physically, Remus takes the wand. At a flourish, a spiral of sparks spring out; Remus blinks in surprise, looks the wand over, then seems to settle with the idea that this is now his.

“Excellent,” says Ollivander. “An unyielding wand. I have found, however, that it seeks masters that are considerate and kind. Good for non-verbal spell-work, that one.”

With that said, he turns to Draco. Unlike with Remus, he takes his time to study Draco, even circling him—and Harry, as they still hold hands. It’s incredibly unnerving, and Harry can’t help but squeeze Draco’s hand—moral support, if he will. He feels like a small child, again, the same child that had stood in the shop at 11 tender years of age, and yet so different.

Harry knows magic now, has seen it. Yet there is much more to see, much more to learn, and he can finally have it in truth.

“Hmm,” says Ollivander, “You have changed a lot since we last met, young Mister Malfoy. It suits you.” He turns around sharply, eyes looking over the collection of wands he has spread on his dining table. “Ash perhaps? No, not quite. Mayhap beech could do it, but that remains to be tested. Or cedar. Let’s start with beech.”

The cedar, 10 ¼, with unicorn hair, turns out to be the correct choice. Draco has a broad, pleased grin, all of him alight with a boyish glee.

But Harry—he nearly dreads this moment. Ollivander turns to him, eyebrows raised. Harry, for his part, doesn’t quite want to look away from Draco, at risk of becoming  _ really _ obvious about it. He does, though.

Like he had been a hat stall once, so it had taken several wands before he received the holly. He doesn’t want a repeat of that, as happy as Ollivander is with a challenge. The wandmaker presents him a polished black wand with a lighter grip, a beautiful thing Harry almost wants to describe as ‘prickly’. “Blackthorn, perhaps?”

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Godric lean forward. When he glances over, his dad has a narrowed-eyed look about him, lips just slightly pressed together.

Carefully, Harry takes the wand. He feels nothing from it, but with wands that could mean anything. He flicks it—nothing. This one is not for him. Godric leans back, almost relieved, and that is  _ curious. _   


Before he can really consider it, Ollivander presents him with another wand—aspen, which Harry at first almost mistakes for ivory. That one is another bust, and Ollivander prattles along, inspecting the next wand, and the next—another holly, this time with dragon heartstring, which sends prickles up Harry’s spine but remains completely silent otherwise, then cypress, and  _ that _ almost feels right but isn’t.

“Larch, 10 inches, with dragon heartstring,” says Ollivander. His eyes twinkle with excitement, as if Harry were absolutely making his day.

This one, though,  _ this _ one. Harry barely moves his wrist before a flash of golden light shoots up, falls around them like little stars. It’s a warmth, like home, like recognition.

“A lot of untapped potential,” Ollivander remarks. “Wonderful!”

Godric rises from his chair. “A most sincere thank you for your work, wandmaster. It’s been a delight.”

“The pleasure is wholly mine,” says Ollivander. “I do so like to tinker for such interesting subjects, even when I don’t yet know who they will be.”

***

The rest of the afternoon, Harry’s supposed to spend with Sirius. They don’t stay long at Grimmauld Place; as soon as Sirius has stashed away his spare wand, they go out for a walk. They’re not going anywhere in particular; it’s just a chance for them, Sirius in particular, to stretch their legs and get some fresh air.

For all that the Black family seems to have prided themselves for being Pure-blooded, the Borough of Islington appears a thoroughly non-magical region. Grimmauld Place isn’t the most exciting-looking street, nor is it quite picture perfect, almost eerie like Privet Drive.

“When were you going to tell me about you and Draco?” says Sirius as they round a corner.

“I dunno,” says Harry, grinning. “When were you going to tell me about you and Remus?”

“Touché.” Sirius takes a moment to look at Harry, almost inspect him. “Not so long ago, you were enemies.”

There’s a question in there—several questions. Harry hasn’t spoken much to anyone about Draco, not even to Ron and Hermione. Even they must’ve seen it though, must’ve noticed the change in their behaviours, but Harry had never outright admitted how much he had enjoyed Draco’s companionship when Salah had been giving them lessons on Mind Magic.

And that’s where it started, isn’t it? With Salah and her exasperation, her fiery  denial of everything Draco had stood for when he’d just been ‘Malfoy’.

“He’s changed,” Harry says, “he’s grown up, I guess. Salah made him see how wrong he was, and he made the choice to change and become a better person. You must’ve seen him at the Ministry, too; he fought with us. He chose to stand with me even when he must’ve known what—who he was turning against.”

Out of all of them, Draco has probably made the greatest sacrifice. He’s borne it with great dignity and rather little complaint; everything Draco has known and loved is now out of reach: family, friends, home.

Harry says, “You’ll have to get to know him yourself.”

They slow down a bit, let the spot of silence sit between them. Something else rests there, too, whilst Harry debates how to break the news about his impending adoption. Just two years ago, he had basked in the thought of living with Sirius, but now that all seems so far away, almost too hazy to be real.

In the end, Sirius breaks into the subject. “You know, now I’m awake…” he grins when Harry looks at him, eyes hopeful, “you don’t have to live with...them.”

The wording, more than anything, makes Harry pause, stop in his tracks. Sirius’ tone had held no particular inflection, but  _ them _ comes off odd, like—

“You mean to say her,” Harry says, not even bothering to hide his disappointment. “Salah.” When Sirius says nothing, Harry adds, “She’s not a bad person. She’s nothing like what the stories say about Salazar Slytherin.”

“But those stories are based on something.” Sirius turns to face him fully. “They don’t just fall from the sky, fully formed.”

For a moment, Harry doesn’t even know what to say, where to begin. He hadn’t been expecting this, not after Sirius had initially seemed to take in Salah’s existence so well.

Had he been Hermione, he would talk about books, about passages and their exact pages; in fact, he’s fairly certain Hermione  _ has _ actually done reading on this; she’d spoken about it briefly, but he can’t properly recall what her findings had been. Or rather, it had seemed like she  _ hadn’t _ found anything substantial.

So he says, “You should talk to Salah about that,” and has to watch Sirius grimace.

“She can lie.”

Harry holds back on rolling his eyes. “And I suppose she’s been lying to Godric all this time?” Sirius opens his mouth, but Harry continues before whatever silly thing Sirius has to say about it actually comes into being, “Or you think he’s bewitched, or you think somehow the Elves are all lying. No matter what anyone says, least of all her, you’ll never think of her as anything but Salazar Slytherin, the evil founder.”

“Why should I?” says Sirius, chin jutting out defiantly. “I don’t know her.”

“I do. I trust her.” And then he has to say it, “I’ve asked them to adopt me.”

The shock and betrayal, Harry had expected. The snarl, he hadn’t, nor the anger with which Sirius spits out, “Are you out of your mind? Does Dumbledore know about this?”

“No,” says Harry, “and No. I’d rather he didn’t, actually.” Dumbledore is the one who had put him with the Dursleys after all, the one who remains adamant that Harry is safer with people who could care less whether he were to fall off the face of the earth. In fact, Harry is decently certain Vernon Dursley would be  _ pleased _ if Harry were to go off and die horribly.

But Sirius doesn’t really know all of that, does he? He hasn’t experienced life with the Dursleys, hasn’t  _ seen _ the cupboard or heard the things they’ve said to Harry. But that is beside the point, really.

“They care,” Harry says. “Salah and Godric care. About me. They answer my questions, they allow me to practice my magic, they  _ teach _ me how to do all of it, let me experiment where I want to. I’ve never had that. I’ve never had a home, or people who respect me or love me just for me. Not even you,” he adds then, harshly. “Can you say with certainty that you look at me and see me for me, Harry, and not James, your old pal? Because I often feel like you compare me to him. But I’m not. I’m Harry.”

_ Hurt _ . Sirius presses his lips shut so tight they go white. 

This is not the way Harry had wanted this particular conversation to go, but things never go quite how he wants them to. And he has to continue, just so Sirius can understand, “I won’t forget my parents. I won’t forget Lily and James or how much they loved me. How can I? They  _ died _ for me. And I know they intended for you and Remus to take care of me when they couldn’t, but Sirius, you went to Azkaban for twelve years! Your exoneration is still in progress. Do you really want to take on the care and responsibility of a teenager?”

It takes a moment, but Sirius does reply. “I want to at least be given the chance.”

Harry shakes his head. “You have your own life to put back together. Your own traumas; I just—it wouldn’t be healthy.”

In the silence that follows, Sirius studies Harry’s face. It’s a loaded few seconds, but Harry stands his ground; this is his choice. He’ll be happy, damn it, and he does want Sirius to be there for it, to be his  _ godfather _ as his parents had intended.

“You really want this?”

“Yes.” Harry crosses his arms. “You didn’t seem this suspicious of Salah...before.”

“I’d just come to; for all I knew, I was having an incredibly odd dream.” After an inhale, “You should honestly talk to Dumbledore about this.”

“No,” Harry says pointedly. “I should honestly allowed to make my own decisions rather than having Dumbledore constantly decide how I live my life. I mean, if it were up to him, I wouldn’t get to live with you either. He’d send me back to the  _ Dursleys. _ ”

That makes Sirius pause for a bit, eyes narrowed and considering... _ something. _

“You remember what I gave you last after New Year’s?” He asks suddenly. “Did you ever open it?”

“Uh,” says Harry, trying to think back. “No, I...sort of forgot? But I do still have it.”

“It’s a mirror,” Sirius tells him now. “I have a duplicate. When you speak my name, your mirror will connect to mine, and we can communicate. It’s faster than owling, and less troublesome than the Floo.”

“All right.”

Slowly, Sirius nods. “If you really, truly want this...whole adoption thing, I suppose I can’t stop you. But if anything happens—I’m here.”

That seems to mark the end of that. The rest of their walk is in silence; they make a circle around the square Grimmauld Place exists in, pass by a reservoir Harry doesn’t expect to see. By then some clouds have gather and he is  _ glad _ to see number 12; if only the concept of summer in England weren’t so utterly  _ fickle. _ As soon as they’re inside, they hear the faint sound of a drizzle

Kreacher waits for them. Harry almost jumps out of his skin when he spots the elf stood near the stairs; even in the new, shiny, refurbished manor, Kreacher blend in far too well. Harry wouldn’t put it past Kreacher to do that on purpose, except, it’s not like the elf buys his own clothing. Does he?

“A letter for Master Sirius,” Kreacher says. He makes it sound as if it’s a curse. Sirius and he exchange a look of mutual distaste as Sirius takes the envelope.

“The Ministry,” Sirius mutters. “How lovely.” He reads quickly, eyes growing large. “Wait, since when do they have Peter in custody?”

“Battle at the Ministry,” Harry explains, grinning. “Mum—Salah brought him in. Or, well, had Winky bring him in. You should’ve seen Fudge’s face!”

“How did she…?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m guessing through one of the many contacts she and Godric have? Not sure how she  _ knew _ , though.” It could be she saw it in Harry's head, or perhaps Godric had. It could be their network really is  _ that _ good, likely infiltrated places they can’t even speak of.

“The trial is tomorrow at ten,” Sirius informs him. “I’ve barely been awake for three entire days, thanks.”

“Took them long enough, though.” The entire summer vacation, in fact. And that’s not even taking to account the fifteen years prior.

Sirius grins, “Tomorrow, I’m a free man.”

 

***

Despite the arguably excellent timing on the Ministry’s part, Harry can’t entirely settle in elation. Upon return to Gryposcire, he goes straight to his parents—they already know, because of course they do, and just like him they grumble at how long it all took. Harry leaves them to it.

He finds Draco in the library. Whilst Harry had still been in London, their Hogwarts books appear to have arrived, and by the looks of it Draco is  _ not impressed _ .

“Have you seen this?” he says as soon as he spots Harry. “I thought I’d start with History for a bit of light reading,” he holds up the book for a second, not nearly long enough for Harry to catch the title. “But it’s completely rubbish! I’ve cross-checked with the books here and it’s  _ insane _ how many things are off the mark. I’m owling Granger—”

“Really?” says Harry, disbelieving. Draco may not have been a hostile entity in their lives for a while now, but owling Hermione seems like a rather large step.

“Yes, really.” Draco glares at him. “This is only the second time, so don’t get your hopes too high up. Though she  _ is _ rather engaging. The point is,” Draco holds up his letter, “this book is an outrage. Where’s Demetra?”

The indignation Draco sets off with is almost comical, even though Harry knows Draco is likely right. It’s perhaps fortunate Harry completely flunked out of History. Plus, he doesn’t have to suffer Binns for another year.

“Sirius’ trial is tomorrow!” he calls after Draco as his boyfriend goes in search of his owl, Demetra.

“Good! Finally!”

That leaves Harry alone with his thoughts again, which is not necessarily where he wants to be. He can’t help but repeat the conversation with Sirius over in his head, dissecting the words until they mean nothing at all, and yet something won’t stop niggling, as if he’s not looking at things at the right angle.

Everything he’d said to Sirius is honest and true to the very core of his heart. This past summer has granted him a freedom he’s never before had, a chance to explore magic at his own pace and with encouraging supervision. It’s a new privilege, one he’s sorely missed all this time.

What would another summer with the Dursley’s been like? Harry dreads the thought, shakes it away. Miserable fits—and he’ll leave that there.

But the question still stands—the one he’d asked Salah. If his mother’s sacrifice, her blood, has kept Harry safe from Voldemort, why was it so easy for the Dursley’s to abuse him? Or did the protection not include them? Blood magic is versatile; perhaps it had specified its reach only to Voldemort? It does, at the very least, exist.

Otherwise there would be no purpose to leaving Harry with the Dursleys. That is a decision  _ Dumbledore _ had taken upon himself—and that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Dumbledore had put him there, with only Mrs Figg to watch over him—under orders not to tell him anything. Everything leads back to Dumbledore eventually.

Salah had said,  _ I can’t grasp the bigger picture yet and it’s bugging the hell out of me. _ It swims around in Harry’s head, tugging and pulling, never quite settling.

“Hello again.” Draco’s voice comes from the door, but his footsteps come closer. He takes seat in front of Harry. “What’re you looking so glum for?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Ohh, dangerous.”

Harry snorts, allows his eyes to focus on Draco. Slightly mocking tone aside, Draco does look at Harry with a serious expression. It sends a little tug at Harry’s heartstrings. “I’m thinking about Dumbledore, and what Salah said about him. That he must be up to something, and that he... _ seems _ willing to sacrifice non-magical people for...the greater good, I suppose.”

“I see.” Draco leans back, studies Harry’s face. “The way I see it, letting a couple of hundred Mu—non-magical people die makes it easier to paint The Da—You-Know-Who in a bad light.” At Harry’s look, Draco adds quickly, “All right, terrible choice of words, but you do understand what I mean? It makes You-Know-Who look far more frightening and relentless if the casualties are high. At which point—who are people going to turn to?” Draco sends Harry a pointed look. “To the one man You-Know-Who fears most.”

Slowly, Harry nods. “I got that far. I’m just wondering—what does that mean for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Harry takes in a deep breath. “There’s the prophecy, right?  _ Neither can live while the other survives. _ That sounds like I have to kill Voldemort. I’m the only one who can.” At least Draco doesn’t wince at the name anymore, though Harry does catch the twitch of his eye. “Dumbledore has known this for fifteen years, give or take, but only chose to tell me there is a prophecy at all just now. Why? Why wait? He knew Voldemort might come back some day…”

“Maybe he thought you too young?” says Draco. “I mean, you  _ are. _ As inspiring as you are, I don’t think the burden should be on you.”

“You think I’m inspiring?” Harry grins widely.

Draco rolls his eyes, but his cheeks go pink. “Shut up. Yes, I do. That’s not the point, though. The point is, how could you possibly beat an experienced adult? I know I sound  _ exactly _ like your soon-to-be parents, but they have a point. ” 

“But that’s what I mean!” Harry leans forward. “He could have told me long ago and prepared me. Trained me. I could’ve been a proper warrior. But instead…”

“Instead you were put in the care of those…” Draco’s face sours, “relatives of yours.”

“Exactly! The Dursleys—who never cared, who never would have let me do any magic if it were allowed outside of school. If I’m ultimately supposed to defeat Voldemort, that’s a huge risk to take. I could have starved to death before I ever got to Hogwarts. Without any proper training, I will die regardless.”

Something about what he’s said has made Draco go deathly pale, eyes wide and... _ worried. _ Harry reaches out, but Draco shakes his head.

“You said it yourself,” Draco mutters. “ _ If _ you’re ultimately supposed to defeat You-Know-Who. As an untrained wizard, you’re like lamb to slaughter.”

For a moment Harry can’t move, and it’s like his world does a strange jolt, spins around him. It’s done rather a lot of that lately, but the dizzy, sickening sensation remains unwelcome.

Draco says, “I think we should talk to—”

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to me for reading the description of holly on Pottermore and going "this would be an excellent wand for Harry it's fitting to the last letter" and THEN googling Harry's wand and just sitting there like wow i'm really that fucking dumb, huh.
> 
> If anyone is interested in my reasoning behind these wands specifically for these characters, feel free to ask. I may even make a post about it on tumblr.hell!


	13. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial and a trying day. A trying couple of days. To put it mildly.

Their pace is not necessarily rushed on the way to Salah’s study—the last place Harry had seen his parents. He just wants to make it there and spill out his thoughts before they evaporate and he’s left with only the niggling feeling of something being wrong.

The door is just a bit open—

“—spoken to him about relocation,” they hear Salah say.

“He is being rather stubborn,” Godric says in turn. “I understand, I do, but nobody wants twitchy centaurs, and he’s now rambling off about finding Grawp a mate—”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Salah groans. 

Impatient, Harry knocks at the door. Only after Godric tells them to come in does Harry open the door, pulls Draco along into the study. It seems everyone is here now—Godric stood with his arms crossed, Salah sat at her desk, and—Harry’s siblings, he has siblings! He has to shake the thought away not to get distracted. Priorities, and that.

 _“Hullo, littlest brother,_ ” Godiva hisses. Harry smiles up at her from where she peers down. Idris has fallen asleep against her shoulder; it’s truly remarkable that the man can just go on sleeping like that, _everywhere._ Amat, at Godiva’s left, is alert.

“Is something the matter?” Salah says.

“It’s not the Order is it?” says Godric. “Tell them to fuck off.”

Draco snorts. “No, it’s not them. Well, sort of. Harry?”

“It’s about Dumbledore.” Everything’s still flying about in his head, and he can’t condense it all, make it _simple_. It’s not simple. “You know about the prophecy—about what it says?” He pauses a moment for their reaction, an affirmative nod. “And it just sounds like I have to fight Voldemort, probably kill him, right? But you two keep complaining about how subpar our education has been, and how little I’ve been told about what’s going on? I mean, I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I turned eleven, did I—”

“You _what?_ ” Draco interrupts. “You—”

“The Dursleys never told me,” Harry says quickly. “Not even how my parents died; they said it was a car crash. Hagrid explained it to me.”

Between Godric’s narrowed eyes and Draco’s evident horror, Harry almost doesn’t want to continue speaking. But he has to. “So, the main thing here is— I’m supposed to defeat some madman, but I’ve been completely isolated from the magical world for years, and every summer again. Why? If I’m supposed to fight Voldemort isn’t it better to have prepared me for it?”

“Ah,” says Salah. “Yes, we did wonder the same thing, did we not?” She looks to Godric. “The immediate answer would be to protect a child from being turned into a soldier. Except...”

“Except, why keep you from the magical world altogether?” Godric continues. “Why let the Dursleys keep with their charade? His informant must’ve told him. She must’ve mentioned how they treated you.”

“And the letter,” Harry says, “the letter listed my address as _cupboard under the stairs_.” It’s the first time in ages since he’s said this out loud, acknowledged it. He hadn’t even told Draco yet, had he—just mentioned the hand-me-downs and the verbal abuse. It’s such an accepted part of his life, in his own head, that it hardly seems worth repeating. But now...

Draco makes a strangled noise. Harry shoots him a look, shakes his head. They’ll all have to take issue with the minute details later; he just doesn’t have the mental space for it right this instance.

He continues, “If he knew, if he’s known all this time—wouldn’t it make more sense to move me elsewhere? If I’m supposed to be the one person who can defeat Voldemort, why leave me there? I could have died—protective magic be damned. Unless I’m not supposed be the one to defeat Voldemort.”

“Hmm,” says Godric. “You think Dumbledore is after the glory? You raise good points, but I don’t think it’s that straightforward.”

“You’re forgetting the soul fragments,” says Salah. “Dumbledore can no more rid us of Voldemort than any other person, not until all the fragments are gone. Having you expire anonymously wouldn’t help with the problem; the container must actually be destroyed, and the fragment with it. In fact, it would be incredibly detrimental if you were to die with the fragment still there. It could take over your body and return to Voldemort if it so wished.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” says Harry. “Absolutely not.” His body is _his_ , thank you very much.

“Exactly,” Salah says. “Nobody wants that. But as Godric said, you’ve raised good points. Why _did_ he leave you there? Your mother’s magic didn’t protect you from the abuse, so you could have been in genuine danger. Why isolate you at all?”

The silence settles uncomfortably, but it does not last long. Godric inhales sharply, presses his lips together so tightly they go completely bloodless.

“I’m so fucking _stupid_ ,” he murmurs. “That was the entire point. He collects them, they owe him. Why didn’t I see this before?”

“Uh, darling,” Salah says after Harry and Draco shoot her a bewildered look, “would you care to share with the class?”

Godric looks at her sharply. “Isolation. It’s what happened to me, isn’t it? I was kept away from everything else. No friends, no family. But when I was good, when I did as they wanted, they gave me _magic_. And it was wonderful—I would have given up my life to learn more. It was a part of their cycle.” Here, Godric turns to look at Harry. “Keep a child completely isolated, with little to no idea of who they are, with no loving community around, and suddenly the magical world is thrice as magnificent. You don’t know the magical world as, say, Draco does; it’s not as natural, normal. And after all those years of abuse, you’ve finally found a place where you belong, haven’t you? You’re no longer a freak, or a burden. You’re magic.”

The room swims before Harry’s eyes; Godric’s words hit him dead centre. Draco steadies him, fingers twined, shoulders pressed together.

“Dumbledore collects outcasts,” Godric says. “We realised that a while ago when we gathered information on the Order. Practically everyone there owes him a favour—Hagrid, for instance, owes Dumbledore his job and home, Remus owes his schooling and a brief stint at a job, Andromeda was disowned, the Weasley children can go to school despite the family’s poverty...I could go on.”

“And I’m the Boy Who Lived,” Harry says softly.

“No, you’re the boy who knew nothing of his heritage until it was time to start at Hogwarts. An outcast to his own community.” Godric smiles wryly. “And who did that?”

The silence stretches, and Harry can hear his ears ring, he opens his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. 

Eventually, “So everything I went through as a child…with the Dursleys...” 

“Oh, I don’t think he _intended_ for you to be abused,” Godric says. 

“But...it did work in his favour,” says Salah. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “He has a child soldier who would do anything to save the magical world.” Even her voice sounds strained now. “What a headache. Harry,” she looks at him, piercing hazel eyes. “If this is too much...”

“I…” Harry inhales slowly, shaking. “I don't know...I…” 

Part of him wants to scream. Another part of him would sincerely like to sit down. Everything would be much better if he weren’t here, didn’t have to live with all of this, hadn’t at any point come to these realisations. He remains in place like a thoroughly rooted tree.

Before Harry can process the movement, Godric is hugging him. Then all four of them are huddled together, Harry cocooned in the middle, and something inside him comes loose and allows him to _cry._

When the first sob sends a shudder through his body, he feels Godric lay a kiss atop his head. He’s safe.

 

***

The morning of Sirius’ re-trial is unremarkable save for that their little family stands in the Ministry’s atrium at a quarter past nine. This is far too early for Harry’s taste; they have three quarters of an hour until the trial starts, which is far more time than he would like to stand around idly in the Ministry. The atrium, especially, makes him twitchy.

Most of the destruction seems repaired. Somber faces pass them by, speaking in hushed tones and walking quickly. It’s like Diagon Ally all over again—the overbearing sense that something is wrong. It had only taken them a year to change their tune, and Harry can’t even spite them.

Several posters catch his attention; one is of an austere, thin-faced man with tawny hair, apparently named Rufus Scrimgeour, and the other is of the witch Harry remembers from his disciplinary hearing—Amelia Bones. They’re both contenders for the position of Minister of Magic, though Harry hasn’t been keeping up closely enough with the news to decide who he prefers in that particular seat.

He doesn’t even have time to take more than a glance at the posters; he’s ushered along past the badly-shaven security officer who checks their wands, and then they’re off to an elevator.

“While I’m glad to have kept our wands,” Godric says conversationally, “in these times of open warfare, that’s a catastrophe waiting to unfold.”

“You’d _think_ they’d have learnt to be more careful,” Salah remarks as she presses the button to the lift. “Especially after the catastrophe that has _already_ happened here.”

“Maybe that’s why they let us keep our wands,” says Harry, “so that we can defend ourselves in case something does happen.” He’s not particularly keen to be left without his wand, despite the knife strapped around his ankle. The dagger Salah and Godric had gifted him has been shrunk and  clipped unto his belt.

Draco snorts. “So many things could go horribly wrong with that, though.” He shakes his head. “If they’re trying to make it seem like the Ministry has everything under control, they’re doing a terrible job.”

Their conversation halts there, as the lift rattles on the level nine—the Department of Mysteries. It’s a quiet, uncomfortable trip, worse than the ill sense that hangs in the Atrium or in Diagon Alley. Interdepartmental memos soar overhead, and every flap of their wings is like claws against Harry’s skin. The memos seem to have tripled since he’d come here last year.

When the lift door opens to level nine, Harry almost doesn’t move. He squeezes Draco’s hand, follows after Salah and Godric—

And Draco doesn’t budge. When Harry looks back, his boyfriend stares ahead, face pinched, eyes wide. On some level, Harry wants to laugh hysterically; that look, the blankness, the tension—that’s what it is like for him, in his head. It’s a prickly thing in his chest, something undefinable. Draco’s expression assures him he’s not alone in it.

“Draco?” Godric places a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “We won’t let anything happen to you. But if you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to. We can take you back home.” he looks at Harry. “That goes for both of you. Just say it, and one of us will take you back home.”

A tremor goes through Draco’s bottom lip, his eyelids. Then he takes a deep breath, and colour comes back to his face. “Thank you,” he says to Godric. “I’ll be all right, I think. I want to be here.”

“The offer still stands.” Salah looks from Draco to Harry, waiting.

“I’m okay so far,” says Harry. He feels a bit better now, knowing there’s some sort of exit strategy. He’s not entirely certain how he’ll feel once he’s inside the courtroom, the very same one from last year, but it’s a process. He squeezes Draco’s hand again, gets a small smile.

Unlike with Harry’s hearing, the doors to Courtroom Ten are open. Scrimgeour is there with a delegation of Aurors around him as he speaks to a member of the Wizengamot. Harry spots Dumbledore a second later, chatting with Madam Bones, and all his dread and misery is suddenly replaced with a furious urge to _hurl_ something at the Headmaster, preferably something both sharp and heavy.

Salah sees his expression. “Let’s just go inside and take our seats, shan’t we?” She pushes the boys past the doors.

As Salah is a witness in the case, having handed Wormtail to the Ministry, they have seats on the front row. Neither she nor Godric take seat immediately, instead  waiting to survey the room and everyone in it thus far. Harry only recognises the faces of people who he’d seen here before, and fortunately Umbridge is still behind bars.

“Chains,” Godric mutters under his breath, eying the chair where the accused will be seated. “Well, Pettigrew deserves that.”

Not long after, Sirius makes his appearance. He and Remus make straight for them, with Sirius sauntering along as if none of this bothers him. A steely look in his eyes belies that, however; he’s ready to fight for his innocence.

“Well, good morning,” says Sirius. “I’m ready for this to be done with. Then I will hopefully never set foot in this place again.”

“The keyword being hopefully,” says Remus.

“What about _definitely_ not coming back here.”

The next half hour is absolutely _excruciating_ , as more and more people pile in. Harry has to stop himself from bouncing his leg multiple times. It’s _better_ than last year by a long shot, and if all goes well Sirius will be free, but he doesn’t want to be here. It’s a bad place. Everything about it presses against his skin, demands his alertness.

Last year it had been his trial. Before the summer, it had been the battle. The Ministry is a feeding ground for chaos and disaster, and Harry is rather done with being part of it.

Dumbledore is here too. Every nerve ending in Harry’s body is unsettled and screaming loudly at him; _betrayal_ can’t convey the sheer magnitude of what sits inside his head. He’d lain awake for hours just trying to parse through the thoughts, the implications, every single _word_ Dumbledore had ever said to him, every gesture, every _look_ that had passed—

“Diffindo!” someone shouts. Movement in the corner of his eye—

Light green. It speeds towards them, straight at Salah’s back, but before Harry has his wand ready, Godric has turned her away from the curse and deflected it upwards. In a smooth, practiced move Salah has turned, gets her wand out, casts, and a lady of the Wizengamot is on the floor wriggling, shrieking, limbs bound tightly.

Bits of the ceiling come crashing down, the crowd scatters. Rubble explodes against the ground, the sound reverberating, and Harry can’t stop hearing it. Sirius has somehow grabbed both him and Draco, shielding them with Remus’ help. Something trembles next to Harry—Draco, gone so pale he might as well be a ghost. Harry takes his hand, cold, and squeezes.

Godric is across the room and has his wand pointed at the offending, shrieking witch, and the Aurors haven’t reacted—stunned, still, at the chain of events. With Godric looming over her, the witch quiets, eyes wide.

“You attacked my wife,” Godric snarls.

She spits. “She is an _imposter_ claiming to be Salazar Slytherin, disgracing the name of the Dark Lord with her li—”

“Shut up.” With a flick of his hand, the witch’s voice goes completely silent, mouth gaping like a gasping fish. She struggles against her bonds, but to no avail.

The Aurors have come into action, surrounding Godric and the witch at his feet. The line of them doesn’t seem certain, as if they can’t settle on who is the more dangerous target at the moment: the attacker or the redhead towering over her. Harry’s shoulders tense up, and next to him Draco holds in a breath.

“Godric,” Salah calls out sharply. 

Murmurs fill the room, eyes flitting between Salah and Godric. Salah says, “Godric, let _them_ handle this.” Then, in parseltongue, “ _We cannot antagonise the Ministry right now.”_

He doesn’t move—still as a pillar, eyes fixed on the witch. She stares back up, and whatever she sees makes her go utterly pale, eyes wide and lip trembling. It takes a second—a long, painful second, before Godric tucks away his wand. Without so much as a glance at the Aurors, he marches back across the room.

“Fuck, he’s scary,” Sirius murmurs as Godric returns at Salah’s side.

The tension doesn’t leave the room even as the Aurors haul the witch away. Several of the gathered witches and wizards look at Godric as if he were a ticking time-bomb, which Harry thinks is entirely fair considering how much sheer _murder_ Godric currently radiates.

That doesn’t stop Rufus Scrimgeour from approaching. “I am deeply sorry for this,” he says to them. “She is a well-respected member of the Wizengamot; to think her capable of such a thing…”

Salah says, “Anyone is capable of terrible things.” It’s almost as if she were explaining this to an insect, so simple even _it_ could understand such a human concept. 

Chastised, Scrimgeour bows his head briefly. “Those were impressive reflexes, mister…” he looks at Godric expectantly.

“Count,” Godric says coolly, “Godric Hereweald Oswine of Griffon’s Door. Yes, I’m still alive etcetera, etcetera. The cat’s out of the bag now. Yaay!”

Salah snorts. “Convincing.”

“Not everyone gets to have dramatic introductions like you do, darling.”

“I don’t know,” says Harry. At his side, Draco tries and fails to suppress a chuckle. “I’d call this entire mess pretty dramatic.”

Scrimgeour looks their party over, eyes narrowed, calculating. He speaks directly to Godric alone, “We are honoured to have your lordship present. I will personally see to it that this case is resolved quickly.”

“We appreciate it,” Salah says. Her smile is sharp, grows wider when Scrimgeour glances at her.

After another moment, Sirius says, “Not to be impatient, but are we having this trial or not? I haven’t got all day, you know?”

His trial, in fact, takes all of fifteen minutes. The Aurors bring in Peter Pettigrew, alive and unwell, his testimony first begotten under veritaserum and now rather undeniable, what with his and Sirius’ memories paraded in front of the Wizengamot.

Sirius tells his story in five minutes, sparing a sneer for Peter as he explains the switch they’d made as to the Secret Keeper for the Potters. Harry has his mind closed off the entire time, half afraid he will crush Draco’s hand otherwise. He still _feels_ the softness of Draco’s palm, the firmness of his fingers, and it’s all that keeps him from screaming at the top of his lungs.

Wormtail had betrayed Lily and James Potter. Harry has barely known peace since then, the true meaning having only just been bestowed upon him in the last two months.

“But how was he _found,_ ” asks Scrimgeour.

With her faintly disinterested look, Salah replies, “We have contacts.”

Madam Bones eyes her evenly. “You mean spies.”

“I mean what I said.”

Scrimgeour opens his mouth, but Madam Bones shuts him up with a look. She says, “Let the records show that the accused was found in London and brought to us on the 18th of June of this year...”

It’s settled with minimal fanfare. Peter Pettigrew is found guilty of the murder of twelve ‘Muggles’, and of the act of betrayal that led to the murder of James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter.

Cinnamon. The scent of it fills Harry’s nostrils, and he almost hears his mother, Lily, sigh in relief. James settles more awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know how to handle the feeling; some things have been set aright at long last.

Reporters snap pictures of Peter as he wails, Aurors dragging him away for his time in Azkaban. Harry doesn’t look that way; instead, he hugs Sirius so tight, the both of them are likely to die due to lack of oxygen, or some injury from broken ribs. He can almost not believe this day has finally come, that Sirius can stand here, out in the open, that he can _hug_ his godfather and not have to worry about Sirius getting arrested.

“You’re free,” Harry says to Sirius once they let go of each other.

Sirius grins. “I’m free.” He then breaks out into laughter, shoulders shaking, and takes Remus’ hand into his.

The camera flashes have turned their way, one almost blinding Harry. “I think we should leave.”

Between the reporters and the sudden surge of a crowd that wants to—Harry doesn’t even know, _talk_ or interact with him or Sirius, it’s difficult to find the way. He has Draco’s hand tightly clasped in his, and both Godric and Sirius pull him along.

“Harry!” The gaggle of Weasleys is unmistakable. Mrs Weasley stands just ahead, her husband and children grouped behind her.

For a brief moment, Harry hesitates. He looks for Ron, who gives him a thumbs up, Ginny who gives him a reassuring nod. He squeezes Draco’s hand, lets go. 

He’d never sent Mrs Weasley that letter.

“Hello, Mrs Weasley,” he says when he’s near enough. Around him, the reporters flash with their cameras, but this isn’t a conversation for them. He discreetly casts a spell, lips mumbling, _reduce nuestras voces;_ hopefully that’s the right conjugation _._

“Hello, dear,” says Mrs Weasley. “You can call me Molly, you know.”

“I—yeah.”

She looks him over, eyes bright and proud. “You look well. I’ve heard from your letters to Ron and Ginny, of course, and the twins saw you recently…”

Her eyes wander to a place behind him. It must be his family, but for once her expression does not sour.

“I admit I was a bit unfair to them,” says Mrs Weasley—Molly, really. “They’ve only looked out for you, and you look well. Better than I’ve seen you in years.” She smiles kindly. “More than a bit unfair, I was. But you are happy, I can see that. And that makes me happy in turn, see?”

Harry can’t help it. “I’ve asked them to adopt me.”

“Oh, Harry,” she looks a bit hurt, but the happiness shines through more. “That was very brave of you.” It’s half-expected when she hugs him. “They’ll be good for you, I’m sure. And you’re always welcome at the Burrow, of course; you’ll always be like a son to me. Always.”

“I know,” Harry says. His eyes water; this had been more stressful than he had imagined, and coupled with the rest of the day, his emotions are everywhere.

Molly lets go and they say their goodbyes. He watches her hurry to her family, watches them floo away. Then he turns to his own little family, the one that waits by the fountain, huddled together under scrutiny of reporters.

He takes Draco’s offered hand and kisses his fingers. Draco says, “I suppose that went well?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Yeah.”


	14. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius is a free man, and Salah is forgetful

The six of them spill out into the manor’s parlour, where Godric immediately has Winky bring them tea. Harry, glad to be away from the Ministry, practically throws himself on the nearest sofa and watches as Sirius throws his hands up, smiling broadly.

“At last,” says Sirius, “I am a free man!” He turns to where Salah and Godric have settled, and with presses his lips together. “I have you to thank for that…”

“You’re welcome,” says Salah.

Remus pats Sirius on the shoulder, guides him to a sofa, grinning. “See? That didn’t hurt, did it?”

It’s the first time Harry has seen either of them look so relaxed. Some tensely knotted thing in his chest unfurls; Sirius  _ is _ a free man, a man now allowed to properly be his godfather. He throws a grin at Sirius, and for a moment the uncomfortable feeling that has clung to him since they entered the Ministry disappears.

“I  _ hate _ to sour the mood,” says Draco, “but are we really trusting the Ministry to handle the investigation into Madam Selwyn?”

“Who?” says Harry.

“The woman who attacked me,” Salah responds. “And no, I don’t trust them, but I trust Scrimgeour is a smart enough man to realise that I can utterly destroy his career as I did with Fudge. So it is in his best interest to get something  _ done _ about this...attack.”

“At the very least she should be punished for being as  _ stupid _ as to attack you in a place full of witnesses,” says Draco. “Though I don’t know if she’ll get charged with anything serious. Madam Selwyn is a member of the Wizengamot and of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Not as rich or influential as the Malfoys or the Blacks, but still...”

Indignant, Harry says, “We all  _ heard _ what she—she could be affiliated with—”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t bear the Mark,” Godric says flatly, “though her brother does. But she  _ is _ working to aid a certain tyrannical stain upon the earth. He’s throwing a hissy fit about not being the Heir of Slytherin or whatnot, and apparently so are his followers. She was fool enough to be blinded by rage when she saw us, and so for now Voldemort has lost a pawn.”

“How could you know all of that?” asks Sirius.

“I looked her in the eye, and her mental shields were an absolute joke.”

In the brief, startled silence that follows, Winky pops in to bring them their tea. She seems blissfully oblivious to the mood, instead humming a little tune as she sets the cups down and pops back out.

“...That’s illegal,” Remus points out.

Godric sends him a look. “I am aware. This is, however, war, and she forsook any claim to honour or fair treatment when she attacked Salah’s back. None of this is fun or enjoyable, but I do not trust this ministry with  _ anything _ at the moment. I  _ will _ protect my family by any means necessary until the government steps up.”

“Thankfully she practically handed herself to them on a silver platter,” says Salah. “So they will have to do  _ something _ .”

“But are they competent right now?” asks Harry. “What are they even doing about Voldemort and his people?” He only vaguely remembers a purple pamphlet the Ministry had issued sometime in July, about ‘protecting your home and family’, but the fact that Salah had been so brazenly attacked today gives him serious doubts about the Ministry’s effectiveness.

“Well,” says Remus, “Tonks and some of her colleagues have been assigned to guard Hogwarts, Kingsley has his own assignment in London...and, of course, the elections are drawing nearer, with polls suggesting Scrimgeour has a slight lead.”

“That’s all?” Harry says, incredulous. “That’s all they’re doing?”

Remus sighs. “It’s all we really know.”

A glum silence descends, broken only when Winky pops in to give them their tea, and Salah asks for water instead. Harry stares into his cup, dismayed, frustrated—the tight knot in his chest is there once more, uncomfortable. Two months since the rest of the world had caught on to Voldemort’s return, and yet so little had changed. They’d all fought, some nearly died, and still it seems they hadn’t gotten an inch further.

_ But that’s not true, is it? _ In the time he’s been here, he’s learnt a lot. That tiny voice speaking of doom isn’t even how own, with its wheezing, sibilant tones. Harry shakes his head. There is a war ahead, yes, but he’s preparing for it.

“Wait,” Sirius’ surprised tone breaks through Harry’s ruminations. Sirius has his teacup halfway to his mouth, eyes fixed on Salah. “You’re pregnant. You weren’t pregnant an hour ago.”

Salah sips at her tea, glances down, and mutters, “Must’ve worn off.”

“Consider yourself initiated,” Draco says conspiratorially, leaning towards Sirius. “Don’t spread the news just yet—especially not to megalomaniac reptile abominations.”

Harry nearly chokes on his tea “Do you just come up with these things on the spot or do you have an arsenal?”

“You know I never spill my secrets, Potter.”

“Speaking of secrets,” Salah places her hand on her stomach, fixes Sirius with an earnest look. “We would appreciate your discretion on the matter. This Thursday we depart for Hogwarts; once there, I will no longer hide my condition, but until then, very few people are allowed to know. As Draco said, consider yourself initiated.”

Paling somewhat under her gaze, Sirius nods. He throws a nervous glance Godric’s way. “No wonder you were so incensed, man.”

Godric hisses, “She attacked Salah’s back.”

“Hold on,” says Harry. He frowns at Salah, “You posed as a student last year. How are you getting into Hogwarts this time?”

“I’m one of the Founders, darling,” says she, smiling indulgently. “I can come and go as I please. Besides, Godric is part of the staff, and as his sweet, adoring little wife,” she swats Godric’s knee when he snorts, “we are allowed to cohabitate.”

“And you wanted to have words with Binns,” Godric adds.

“Oh, right.” She grimaces. “Him.”

“But if you’re coming with us to Hogwarts,” says Draco, “that means the entire school will know. That includes all those whose parents are…”

A shiver goes down Harry’s spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He hadn’t even really thought of that; he’d just been ready to keep the secret for as long as necessary. But if Salah stops hiding her pregnancy…

“We’ve spoken to the Headmaster,” says Salah, “and we’ve agreed to cast a Fidelius charm that will last for the remainder of the pregnancy. That way no student or staff member can tell anyone.”

Harry exhales. “Good to see you always have plans for everything.”

“Slytherins,” Sirius mutters.

“Age and experience,” Godric counters, eyebrow arched.

Whatever Sirius means to respond, he bites it down after a look from Remus. For all that Harry loves Sirius, he’s glad for his Godfather’s silence; today has presented many headaches already.

Old habits do indeed die hard.

 

***

Things settle down somewhat after lunch. Sirius and Remus decide to leave for Grimmauld Place, or possibly a nearby pub, as Sirius suggests, grinning, because he really should celebrate his new, officially, lawful freedom.

With start of term only a week away, and their departure for Hogwarts set for coming Thursday, Harry decides to try and pack. He has more things now than he used to—nice, fitting clothes, several pairs of shoes he barely knows what to do with, hair products he’s only just come to understand, mountains of notes he’s made on potions and spells and Spanish…

And he’s not even really sorted all of his schoolwork yet, let alone his books.

“I’ve become Hermione,” he mutters to himself.

But he really does want to take almost everything along. The limited space is a  _ problem _ , though, which means he has to  _ prioritise _ , and whilst having only terrible hand-me-downs and barely anything to his name had been a miserly existence, he should have maybe, just maybe, appreciated the lack of stress involved in having to choose.

By the time someone comes to find him, his room is cluttered all over from his attempts at some semblance of organisation.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter,” Draco says from the door. “What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Are you  _ certain?” _

Harry sends a glare Draco’s way, even though some little voice wants to concede that this is  _ not _ anywhere near the vicinity of the ballpark of what he was attempting in terms of packing. “I’ve never had this much... _ stuff _ before—all these clothes, for starters. I can’t take  _ all _ of them, but which ones am I supposed to? My uniform, obviously—and then there’s all the schoolbooks, and the other books I haven’t finished over summer, and all my notes from our research, and—”

“In short, we have a crisis on our hands,” Draco nods. He rolls up his sleeves, casts a look about the room. “Let’s help you, shan’t we?”

“I almost can’t believe you didn’t call for an Elf,” Harry mutters. Then regrets it immensely, but Draco continues on without so much as a glance his way.

“Someone had to direct them,” is all Draco says.

Together, they sort Harry’s things in a much more structured manner. This is all within the hour, something entirely to do with Draco’s brutal efficiency and bloodied-mindedness about what outfits Harry should and should not wear at Hogwarts, as well as which hair products are absolutely  _ required _ , now that Harry has the mind and space to even know which products are his friends and how to make optimal use of them. 

“I still can’t believe my hair isn’t sticking up everywhere,” Harry says, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. His curls are, in fact, coiling down neatly, no longer puffy and frazzled. He decides to keep them that way, but take a hairband in case they annoy him later.

“You’d best believe it,” says Draco. “I still can’t believe those mu—relatives thought the best way to deal with them was to just...shave them off entirely. Look at those darling curls. What a travesty.”

“Well, it’s not like aunt Petunia knew what to do with them,” Harry mutters. After taking scissors to them herself, she’d grudgingly taken him to a barber, the cheapest one she could find. Of course, as Surrey is so incredibly  _ White _ , the man hadn’t known what to do either, other than shave it all off again, albeit neatly this time. Harry had even sort of liked it, given how non-messy it had made him look. That had lasted a good five months before the mess of ringlets had returned in full force.

Someone knocks at the door. Harry peeks out to see Salah there, hand on her belly, an approving look on her face as she takes in his packing efforts. She beams when she spots him.

“Hello there,” she says. “Our solicitor just called. You’ll be happy to know all the papers of adoption are in order. However, as your aunt is still your legal guardian, we shall have to pay her a visit before we leave for Scotland. Is tomorrow good, or too soon?”

“Tomorrow’s good,” Harry says happily. It’s never too soon to be divested of the Dursleys, especially now that it’ll be permanent.

“I’ll inform Sirius, then.” Salah nods, turns around. Then she stands there for a moment, and turns around again. “I almost forgot! I have an appointment today. Right about now, I think.” She blinks. “Would you like to come along? I’ll ask the doctor if she’ll do an ultrasound.”

It’s as if Harry’s elation knows no bounds whatsoever. Up till now, Salah’s appointments had been private, happy as she is to tell the details when asked. Harry knows absolutely nothing about babies and their births, only what’s he’s seen on the Dursleys’ telly now and then, but this is his  _ sister. _ Will be his sister.

“An ultra-what?” is Draco’s incredibly intelligent reaction.

They go by car, probably the last time they’ll have such luxury. Unlike Salah, Godric had not forgotten the appointment, nor does he seem particularly surprised to have Harry and Draco tag along. Of all of them, Harry’s the most excited; every so often he squeezes Draco’s hand, has to stop himself from bouncing where he sits.

The clinic is just on the other side of Gryposcire, in a quaint, light-grey two-story house—nothing at all like what Harry had expected of a clinic, but certainly well within the aesthetics of the county. It’s not terribly far from the hospital; in fact, one could walk the distance if one so desired. Upon stepping out of the car, Harry notes that the clinic and the hospital are, in fact, on the same plot of land, and a path leads from the back door of the clinic to the hospital behind it.

Godric notices Harry looking. “This was all the hospital we had until the 1920s,” he explains. “All we needed, really. But with rapid advancement, we decided to build a hospital, and moved the obstetrics department here. The general practitioners are right across the street.”

The inside is more modern, and surprisingly nothing at all like the general chaos and absurdity of St Mungo’s. For one, only a single soul, a young woman with bright green hair and steam coming out of her ears, seems to be having any sort of magical mishap; the rest are just people in various stages of pregnancy, or otherwise have a baby with them. They’re all very small, the babies.

“Oh, Ji-Eun,” Salah says when she sees the green-haired woman. “What happened?”

Ji-Eun heaves what is possibly the heaviest sigh Harry has ever seen. “Dunno, milady,” she says with the thickest northern accent aside from Godric when he’s tired. “Just wanted a hot cuppa, an’ Bobbie’s not home. Little one’s restless. So I came in early, got in just before you.”

“Ji-Eun Barrett,” Godric says sternly. “Did you walk all the way? You’re about to pop, as I’m sure you’re very aware.”

At least she looks properly chastised, and Godric hasn’t even really started yet. Just as he’s about to really, truly admonish her, a nurse comes up with a wheelchair, and instead Godric immediately channels his energy into helping Ji-Eun into it, all the while muttering under his breath.

“We’ll take it from here, Lord Godric,” says the nurse. Her departure is so swift, Harry would have easily believed she’d use some spell to go.

Draco says, “You really fuss over everyone, don’t you?”

“I take the health and safety of all my constituents very seriously.”

As Salah takes a seat and Harry considers which one would give him the best vantage point, a short, frazzled looking man apparates in, several bags in hand. He trips over one, manages not to fall on his face, and then sprints forward to where the receptionist points—the direction Ji-Eun had just disappeared in.

“And that would be Bobbie,” says Salah.

“A bit frantic, no?” Godric remarks lightly.

“As I recall, you were such a nervous wreck as I gave birth to Godiva that I kicked you out. It was incredibly peaceful, then.”

“You were in pain!”

A tall , brown-haired woman dressed casually in jeans and trainers approaches them. Her white coat is thrown over her arm, which is really the only clue that she’s the doctor, other than how both Salah and Godric turn to her.

“Marlies, hello,” says Salah.

“Hallo, gravinnetje,” says the doctor. “You’ve brought guests! Marlies den Heuvel.” She extends her hand, giving both Harry and Draco really firm handshakes as they introduce themselves. “Ah, so you’re Harry and Draco. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

Doctor Den Heuvel has an accent Harry can’t place, and her surname has a complicated vowel he can’t wrap his tongue around or even conceive of how to even begin pronouncing. As they walk the small distance from the reception area to her office, she shrugs on her coat and seems to produce a stethoscope out of nowhere.

“And how are we doing today?” says doctor Den Heuvel.

“Puffy,” Salah pouts a little, “With the occasional contraction, but they go by rather quickly.”

“That’s very good.” the doctor rummages around in one of the drawers, pulls out a file, and then takes a seat, gesturing for them to do the same. Looking through the file, she says, “I doubt things have changed since two weeks ago, but it’s always nice to see you again. Is there anything specific you’d like to discuss?”

“Well, no, though I do infrequently get headaches,” Salah responds. “Thankfully I have an Elf with a sixth sense for that sort of thing.”

The doctor nods. “Hormone fluctuations would cause that, though it’s generally harmless. So long as you stay hydrated, of course.” She smiles. “Are you sleeping better?”

“Sometimes, when Godric convinces the baby to stop kicking.” Salah narrows her eyes. “There was something I wanted to request, but I can’t for the life of me remember what.”

Godric says, “An ultrasound, if you would please.”

“Sure!” The doctor stands up, motions to the bed. “It’s a bit unusual, but I can do that. Hop on the bed, please”

As Salah takes place on the bed, doctor Den Heuvel pivots a few times before she locates her wand, which happens to be in her inside coat pocket. They all huddle close to Salah as the doctor  takes out her wand and points it at Salah’s now exposed belly; a silvery-grey hue forms where she points. It’s almost like drawing a memory from a pensieve.

Slowly, a porous, black and grey image presents itself just above Salah’s belly. If Harry squints, he thinks he can see a shape in it, but he’s not clear on what exactly it all is or means, other than that there should be a baby in there somewhere.

“Your baby is developing well,” says the doctor, “Has rather impressive feet.”

Salah raises a brow. “You’ve seen Godric. Why are you surprised?” 

At her side, Godric grins widely. Possibly there’s tears glistening in his eyes. “Maybe she’ll grow tall. Like Godiva.”

“I don’t see anything,” Draco says, unimpressed. “It’s just a mass of grey in a mass of black. How do you see an infant in that?”

Doctor Den Heuvel gives him an amused look. “Look,” she points at the screen, her finger moves in a curve, then further, “Here’s the forehead, and here the nose and lips. She’s all curled up and cosy, and here are her arms, her torso, her hips, and these are her feet. And she just kicked.”

“No, she’s pushing, see?” says Salah. When Harry looks at her stomach, he does see it—a small patch of skin jutting out like some sort of mound.

“That is horrifying,” says Draco. His eyes are wide, his entire face disgusted. He covers his eyes. Harry doesn’t really have that kind of fine control over his arms anymore; he gets to stare at  the horrid scenario until it goes away.

“I know!” says Salah. She’s far too giddy about it for someone who has a tiny eldritch monster growing inside of her. “I feel every single one of her movements, and she’s getting livelier!”

“She must be awake!” says the doctor, matching Salah in cheerfulness. They watch for a moment as the baby gives tiny little kicks, which is all cute and well in the greyish mass of an image, but rather terrifying to see reflected under Salah’s distended skin.

“What kind of spell is this anyway?” says Harry. “I thought ultrasounds needed a computer and such?”

“Well, yes,” says doctor Den Heuvel. “That’s where I got the idea from, but it’s a pain trying to get non-magical equipment to work in heavily magical areas. Too much tinkering, so little time, and even less results. So I tinkered with spells, instead.”

“I’m sorry,” says Draco, “there’s non-magical equipment that can do this?”

The doctor blinks at him. “Yes. Sonography has been used in medicine since the 1940s. It’s integral to diagnosis of various illnesses as well as the monitoring of internal structures. I merely adapted it to magical use. The wizarding world is so behind on a lot of essential medical practices, it drives me insane.”

“Muggles truly are ingenious,” Draco says, surprised. “Oh, er…” he glances at Salah. “Non-magical people.”

“No harm done,” says the doctor, “I’m a proud Muggleborn.” With that, she ends the spell, waits for Salah to cover up again. “You mentioned you plan to return to Scotland? The school up there. You’ll have a medical professional on site, yes? Aside from Godric.”

Harry and Draco turn their heads almost simultaneously. Godric doesn’t even spare them a glance; he nods at the doctor. Sure, he’d casually mentioned a neurologist friend when the Longbottoms had come up, but Harry is fairly certain brain things and baby things are entirely different fields. Fairly certain.

“Then I’ll see you in two weeks for our next appointment,” says doctor Den Heuvel. “We can then schedule your betamethasone shots. After that all we have to do is monitor the baby until it’s time to plan in the C-section.”

“The  _ what _ ?” says Draco.

“It’s a Caesarian section. They’ll cut out the baby,” says Harry.

“They’ll  _ what?” _

“Relax,” Salah tells him. “It’s a perfectly safe procedure, certainly safer than having me push out the baby.” When Draco still looks at her as if she is insane, she explains, “I have too much scar tissue from when Idris was born. If any of that tears, I could lose the baby. ”

“Well, thank Merlin for the— _ thing _ , then. The procedure.” Not that Draco looks remotely relieved.

“Merlin had absolutely nothing to do with it,” Godric mutters.

“That’s for the best, I think,” says the doctor, and then she shoos them out of her office.

The rest of the afternoon is theirs, and they spend it out and about in the town. For all that Harry has known it for a mere six weeks or so, Gryposcire has carved its place in his heart, and he calls it home without any hesitation. They’ll visit again for the holidays, he’s assured, and so he’ll get to see what it’ll look like in winter. By that time, he’ll even have to introduce the baby to  _ snow _ , not that she’ll remember.

“Have you thought of names yet?” he asks Salah as Godric gets them ice cream. Even with September lurking, these last few days are hot enough that this last hour of walking about has produced an unenviable amount of sweat.

“Not yet,” Salah admits. She sits by the tree, the same one she had told Harry to inspect. It seems like ages ago, not weeks. “Bit difficult to think of anything, these days.”

With her wistful look and crossed ankles, under the shadow of the great tree, Salah looks a bit like a painting. It’s a moment Harry would have loved to photograph.

Then Godric returns, ice cream in hand, giving them each a cone. In a fluid motion, he leans down and kisses the crown of Salah’s head before he takes a seat at her side. It’s so casual, so pure and natural, Harry is mesmerised at its occurrence.

It’s a long, peaceful walk back to the car; by the end of it Draco looks a bit too pink on the cheeks, as if he’s perpetually blushing. It suits him, especially now that his complexion is tinged golden. Even Draco seems some sort of dream-like being, as if the ending of summer vacation has already made Harry nostalgic for another. Something about it all makes these last few days in Gryposcire untouchable, and Harry will cherish it with all of his heart.

“Everything is possible here,” Draco says. His fingers twine with Harry’s, but he looks outside, at the landscape as they pass by. A soft breeze plays with his curls, and it’s likely the most endearing thing about Draco that Harry has ever seen.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

Draco turns his head, smiles. “Magic. People. It’s like the world has converged here, but that’s not it, is it? The world was always like this, until some nutter decided to put magical people in one place, and muggles in another. It’s all rubbish.” Draco looks away again. “But the magic really is in the little things. It’s something we share. We can’t just keep it all to ourselves, and Gryposcire is proof of that.”

In the rearview mirror, Harry catches Godric smiling at Draco.

Birds still chitter when they arrive at Griffon’s Door, just in time for an early dinner. Some elves sneak by, apparently having decided to pledge themselves to the Lord and Lady of the manor in thanks for their freedom. They’re—

“Very different,” Harry murmurs to Draco. “Is that one wearing a properly sized outfit? And bracelets?”

‘That one’ had introduced themselves as  _ Bronach _ and is, in fact, wearing a clean purple tunic with the most extravagant yet plain bracelets an elf has ever worn. Another one has golden hoops as earrings, and wears a pale kind of blue that suits their equally blue eyes.  _ Nelly _ .

Nelly also has the tiniest ever known elf with her, dressed in darker blue, and not yet capable of speech. That’s Peternel, and Harry has a distinct urge to give the infant elf a pacifier just to see if that would complete the image.

Of course, Winky is still their main elf. “Bronach is being a free elf,” she explains to Harry. “They is adorned.”

“Should we expect you to wear fancy jewellery?” says Draco

“Winky is not being adorned.” And then after a pause,  “But perhaps one earring.”

“Anything is better than Dobby and his brightly coloured socks,” Harry opines. It’s met with horrified looks, as Draco recalls that one time Dobby popped in wearing a garish glitter hat, along with what was possibly a child-sized palm-themed shirt. Harry hadn’t dared to look at the socks, trusting blindly that they were mismatched.

They settle for the evening, with Peternel toddling about in the sitting room with them. Peternel can’t actually walk yet either, which is all very cute and well until Harry has a mild heart attack as the wobbling elf loses grip and nearly faceplants against the very sharp edge of the table.

Draco is faster. “Peternel,  _ no, _ ” he says gravely. The baby elf stares up with big, brown eyes, uncomprehending.

Right about then, the owl swoops in with the evening  _ Prophet _ . Whyever they still have that swill on subscription is beyond Harry, no matter how much both Godric and Hermione have tried to explain its usefulness.  _ Know thine enemy, _ is one way to go about looking at it, but Harry has a hard enough time reading the front page without immediately contracting a fatal ulcer, or potentially having an acute coronary, so clearly that line of strategy was not made with him in mind.

The news of Godric Gryffindor’s continued existence is somehow  _ not _ grand enough to overshadow another article—

A large, greyscale photo of Harry kissing Draco’s fingers, the intimate moment caught in a loop that plays over and over and over and over. Their fingers laced, the moment obviously private—the slight uptick of Draco’s lips, the little squeeze he had given in return to Harry’s kiss.

Distantly, Harry finds it all very lovely; it’s a  _ good _ picture, the quality rather tip-top for what the  _ Prophet _ usually produces.

And then comes a deep, thrumming fury to settle into Harry’s very bones—with himself, for being so careless, with the photographer for even existing, with the  _ Prophet _ for publishing it, for putting his life on constant display as if it were public domain, as if it’s not  _ his. _

 

GOLDEN BOY & MALFOY HEIR: A TALE OF UNITY, OR TRAGIC LOVE?

 

“Fuck,” says Harry. “Can’t they leave well enough alone?”

“It’s just speculation, Harry,” Godric says.

Harry snarls. “It’s not like speculation ruined my life for an entire year.”

At that, Draco storms out. It takes a moment to register, because Harry is petrified solid where he sits, too furious to even see well. Peternel makes a distressed noise at having lost Draco, turns to Harry for attention but receives none. No, Harry can’t give anyone or anything a proper response, because his world’s been toppled again, made entirely unpleasant by how much none of his life is truly his.

Their idyllic little bubble had burst. Harry isn’t stupid; this had been bound to happen at some point—soon, given that the next term would start in less than a week. Still, he had wanted more time, more paradise, but he can’t seem to find it again. It’s all out there, being tainted and warped and put into restrictions, the gazes of wizards and witches alike always prying, always tearing at him.

He stands abruptly, walks blindly until he finds Draco outside in the yard, where the sun is yet to set, but the light is eerie and pink, orange around the edges, somehow golden and pretty, exactly how the world  _ doesn’t _ feel.

“Draco—”

“Did you figure we’d keep this a secret?” Draco says, incensed. “Or did you think we’d just end it as soon as it would become too inconvenient to keep your reputation?”

“No,” says Harry, “this is  _ ours _ . It’s  _ ours. _ I wanted to keep it that way.  _ We  _ should have been the ones to tell the world. On  _ our _ terms.”

The words hang there, into the stillness between them, with Draco’s wide grey eyes, and the pinkness in his cheeks that goes from angry to soft. It’s a subtle change, but Harry measures it in how Draco’s jaw unclenches, his shoulders relax.

“I’m such a prick,” Draco whispers.

“Well, yeah,” says Harry. “But it’s not like—listen, it’s not like we talked about this. And I would much appreciate if you’d stop expecting the worst from me, but it’s not—I never told you my intentions. And now you know.”

In the next second, they’re kissing. The world is as magical and eerie as it’s meant to be, because their lips touch and the feeling pours through, with Draco’s fingers at the back of Harry’s neck, and the soft edges of his hair brushing against Harry’s forehead.

When they part, Draco smiles. “This. This is ours. I would scream it on top of the world if I must, but it’s our life. And I won’t have anyone take it away.”

Owls swoop in as early as that very evening and continue on into the morning. Many of them are angry at him for dating a Death Eater’s son, but he discards them easily; they don’t know Draco. Hermione sends an elaborate letter Harry can glibly summarise with “I knew about this already but why am I finding this out for the first time via the  _ Prophet?” _ Ron’s letter is more succinct, in contrast.

 

_ Hey mate, _

_ Malfoy, really? All right. _

_ I’ve found all these good sources on disabilities and mental illness. Who knew there was so much? Will tell you everything once we see each other; too long otherwise. _

_ Cheers, _

_ Ron. _

 

Draco also receives letters, most of them hateful. Dobby intercepts them and gleefully burns them in the hearth under Salah’s supervision, as she believes him to be too enthusiastic and perhaps a budding pyromaniac. Bronach watches on, amused, possibly also a bit vindictive as they’ve claimed Draco as theirs, and somehow more of the letters end up in a bonfire outside than in the hearth, which makes both Dobby and Bronach  _ gleeful. _ It’s terrifying.

Only one opinion truly matters, and it comes in the form of a swan patronus, wispy and elegant.

_ “You look happy, Draco,” _ the swan says in Narcissa Malfoy’s voice.  _ “I love you, always.” _

It’s too bad that patronuses are so impermanent, but Harry understands the caution that has now woven itself into the fabric of their lives. Any contact between Narcissa and Draco must be subtle and out of sight. But if Harry could bottle up a moment it would be this: the swan, and Draco’s happy tears.


	15. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family, forgiveness, and potions. One is not like the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter! Because I passed my theory exam for driving!  
> Happy Monday guys.

A fresh new day dawns, and Harry likes to think he’ll be reborn.

They’re in and out of the solicitor’s office in less than an hour. Today, Harry is one signature away from being adopted, and he’s very possibly vibrating with a lot of energy, stood as he is between Godric and Sirius. For all that his Godfather had initially been against the idea, he seems at ease now, possibly even  _ happy _ .

Harry’s not about to push it, though.

“So, the Dursley’s now, I suppose,” he says. As quickly as the mellow expression had come to Sirius, even quicker does it go away. At his side, Remus looks pained.

It’s Salah who speaks. “Unfortunately, yes.”

This is the least good part of the day. It must’ve been an age and a half ago since Harry had seen his aunt and uncle, but really it’s only been a little over a year. If luck will have it, he won't have to see them ever again, nor will they have any say whatsoever in his life. He’ll  _ make _ luck have it if he must.

Privet Drive number 4, Surrey, has not changed one single bit. He tells Draco as much when his boyfriend turns up his perky little nose at the blandness of the place, the lack of personality, the sheer lack of, “finesse, panache, a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Ooh,” says Remus, “it’s always bad when a Black resorts to French.”

“You’re damn right it is,” says Sirius.

Harry rings the doorbell, already impatient. He wants to go home.

Granted, home is currently overrun with owls and two fire-happy Elves, and  _ someone _ has to keep Peternel away from the garden bonfire whenever Nelly and Winky are too busy keeping Dobby and Bronach in check, but he’d rather fist-fight Dobby than spend even a hot second in Privet Drive number 4.

All the memories come back—the cupboard under the stairs, the grease stains on his over-large shirts, the hunger that had gnawed at him until he could no longer distinguish it from the general emptiness that had surrounded him, the burns, the sheer force of will it had taken to survive to his eleventh birthday—

Dudley answers the door. It’s so utterly unusual, Harry and he stare at each other for a good long minute before Dudley yells, “Mum!” over his shoulder.

Aunt Petunia has, possibly, become thinner. It’s not so much in her face as it is in the general air of her, as if she is worn, and it has made her much more like a vulture than a horse. She looks at him down her nose, lips pursed, only sparing the others a glance. Then she catches sight of Sirius.

“You,” she says curtly, the word almost dripping with poison.

“Petunia.” Sirius grins viciously, in a way that makes Harry see the familial resemblance between Draco and he so clearly he’s blinded.

“You were in prison.” It almost sounds like a complaint.

“And I got out, as you can see.”

Probably as impatient as Harry, Salah says, “This is all incredibly entertaining, but we’ve come here for a reason. I’d like to get on with it.”

If even possible, aunt Petunia’s face falls. “You sent a letter. Via post.”

“Via post,” Salah confirms. “Now will you invite us in, or are we to conduct our business on your doorstep?”

Almost gleeful, Harry observes that Salah can still be as vicious as she needs to be, and aunt Petunia doesn’t know how to handle someone who is willing to hold her to her own standards, or hold a metaphorical knife at her throat. Of course, given the right incentive, Salah could even pull a real knife, and wouldn’t that be entertaining?

They pass through the entrance hall into the lounge, and Harry  _ feels _ the exact moment Godric spots the cupboard, because the temperature around them drops considerably. If anyone else notices it, no one comments; Salah merely squeezes Godric’s hand.

As always keen to make a good impression, the first words bleated out of uncle Vernon’s mouth are, “Who are you?”

“Are you always this rude to visitors?” says Draco. “Charming.”

“Now listen here,  _ boy, _ you are in  _ my hou— _ ”

“Dursley,” Godric says curtly, “I would suggest you cultivate some manners, if I thought you so capable. As is, I agree with our ward, though I am less than charmed.”

That goes and shuts uncle Vernon up for a while, but the little vein on the side of his head that’s just about ready to pop—well, that suggests he has much to say. Between Harry’s soon-to-be parents and Draco, Harry’s not sure who will draw first blood. His money’s on Salah, for entertainment value.

“Now, where were we?” Salah says breezily. “Ah, yes. Introductions.” She holds out her hand, almost fastidious, says, “Marchioness Salah Alaia Zaahir de Serpentina.”

A rather long second passes, but aunt Petunia takes Salah’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“I’m sure.”

Godric doesn’t bother with the courtesy. “Count Godric of Griffon’s Door. Husband to the Marchioness. It’s decidedly not a pleasure.”

“You’ll have to forgive my husband,” says Salah. “He doesn’t take kindly to jailers. Or abusers, for that matter.”

It’s all said so glibly that aunt Petunia only blinks before Remus has a turn at introducing himself, which is met with muted replies, and then Draco has a go. Somewhere in between, Dudley shuffles in, tries to catch Harry’s eye, looks glum when Harry ignores it all in favour of watching his family interact with the two main Dursleys.

“Sirius Black, of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. That’s Lord Sirius to you, once the ministry gives me back my title.”

Uncle Vernon narrows his eyes, the vein so near to a terrible pop. “You always hung about with that Potter fool.”

“That ‘fool’ happened to be my best friend, yes.”

“Well, since that’s out of the way…” Salah takes out the carefully folded adoption papers. “Sign these. We’ll be out of here in very little time, you’ll find.”

It’d all gone rather smoothly earlier in the morning, with the solicitor taking time to speak to Harry alone, to explain about the papers, what the adoption would mean, what legal rights he has, and what rights Salah and Godric would have to him. They had also, very specifically, stipulated that he would keep ‘Potter’ as his main surname to use as he pleases, and that Sirius Black is to take responsibility of him in case anything were to happen. That, if anything, is what Harry suspects had made Sirius more amenable to this entire thing.

Aunt Petunia, however, takes the papers into her hands as if they were disgusting scraps drenched in snot. The sheer alacrity with which she reads them, painfully slow, almost makes Harry lose his entire mind. Not that he’s about to let that show, oh no; he’s had plenty of time to study under Salah.

Uncle Vernon reads over his wife’s shoulder, and something makes him go absolutely puce. Luckily, he doesn’t keep it all to himself, “The freak’s to be a Marques?”

“His name’s Harry,” Godric says, teeth clenched.

“And  _ Harry, _ will be titled Lord until further notice,” Salah says, voice steely. “ _ I _ am the Marchioness of the Emerald March until I pass on the title, either by abdication or death. As I have no plans to die anytime soon, he’ll be a Lord.”

“And a count,” aunt Petunia murmurs, disbelieving. It’s the one thing Harry and she agree on; he’d not actually thought about what it would mean to be adopted by titled nobility until he’d read it on the papers, his name now extended to  _ Lord Harry James Potter of Gryposcire & al-Tagr Zamarad. _ He’s legally a Lord in Spain, now, or at least as soon as they translate the papers in Spanish and get him the proper citizenship.

And he’s a Lord in England. Not a Count.

“I’m not dead,” Godric says.

“Please just sign,” Draco insists. “The day is young and bright; I’d like to still enjoy it.”

Aunt Petunia spares him a glance, but uncle Vernon actually looks ready for a tirade. In the end it’s Dudley who speaks, startling half the room, his parents included.

“How are you doing, Harry?”

If his name had not been said, Harry would’ve figured that the question had been tossed out for just about anyone. As is, it takes a good minute for Dudley’s voice to register as anything other than mocking or insincere, at least until Draco digs an elbow into Harry’s side as if to remind him of  _ manners. _

“Good,” is his response. “You?”

“Not bad, overall.”

They’re not the chit-chatting types. In fact, Harry can’t even recall a civil conversation between Dudley and he, not that this even  _ counts _ as conversation. Its civility is yet to be stress-tested, but Dudley seems happy enough to leave it be for now, and Harry’s not about to stretch anything beyond its capabilities.

Eventually, aunt Petunia looks up from the papers. “So I am to give up guardianship of the boy to you.”

“Such as it is,” says Salah. It results in a glare, not that she is even moved. If one can withstand Severus Snape at peak ire, aunt Petunia’s glare is like a soft blanket.

“And I shall never see him again?”

“I wasn’t under the impression you much cared,” says Godric.

For a moment, aunt Petunia’s gaze slides to him, but she has nothing to say other than, “He is my only sister’s son.”

“Well,” says Remus, “you may have considered that before you stuck him in a cupboard.”

“Under the stairs,” Sirius stresses.

Apparently that’s all aunt Petunia can take. She signs the papers promptly, hands them back to Salah as if she never wants to hold them again. Salah takes her time folding them again, transfers them to Godric’s care (possibly to stop him from glaring the Dursleys right into an early death).

“Well, then,” Salah says. “Thank you for your time. We shall see you never again.”

At her cue, they all stand. Possibly, uncle Vernon looks a bit too gleeful, and possibly a bit too miffed to be ordered around in his own house, but that’s not anybody else’s problem. Harry is happy enough to leave Privet Drive number 4 behind, to forget his life had ever been wasted away within these walls.

He shan’t return. The more distance between him and the Dursleys, the better.

Outside on the porch, he pauses. The plants don’t look as healthy, but the neighbours are still casting sneaky looks at their group. No doubt aunt Petunia will have to spin a tale to explain it, but that’s none of Harry’s concern any longer. He has his own family elsewhere.

Draco looks at him expectantly. There lays his future.

“Harry.”

It’s the second time Dudley has said his name. It’s not any less strange than before, for the lack of malice in the sound, as if Harry were finally worthy of something other than open hostility.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Dudley says when Harry looks at him. “Have a good life, cousin.”

The acknowledgement, the simple word—it takes a good deal for Harry to stand in place and not sob. Instead, he cracks a smile, tries a little awkward wave. This is the kindest Dudley has ever been to him, so rare that Harry doesn’t know whether to believe it or look for flaws, for cracks on the surface that betray the true intent. It had probably taken Dudley the entire hour to work up the courage, too.

But no. Dudley is earnest. It’s in the shape of his eyebrows, in his stance, the angle of his shoulders. This is almost as much an apology as it is a show of gratitude.

“You’re all right, Dudley,” he says. “Have a good life.”

And so he hooks his arm into Draco’s kisses his boyfriend’s cheek, and closes that chapter of his life.

 

***

On his second day as  _ Potter of Gryposcire and al-Tagr Zamard _ , Harry stumbles upon Salah with scissors in her hands. He hasn’t the foggiest as to what she’s up to until she holds up the picture from the  _ Prophet _ , the constant loop of Harry kissing Draco’s hand. Once framed, she puts it next to the one at the beach, where Draco kisses Harry’s cheek.

He says, “I hate to say it, but it’s a good picture.”

“It is,” Salah concurs. “They have a good eye.” Pleased with the results of her labour, she turns to Harry. “Do you have any pictures of yours parents? I’d like to put them up here.”

“I do,” Harry says, voice totally not at all wobbly. 

“Good, I’ll have Bronach fetch them.”

“Have you seen Godric?” asks Harry, to distract from the swell of his heart. “Draco and I have Apparition lessons today.” Not that either of them have moved a single centimeter. He’d thought it’d be simple, moving oneself from one place to another, but  _ no. _ At this point, Harry suspects they will have to rely on the Hogwarts Apparition lessons for any sort of progress, and that’s just tragic.

“Out in the garden, I think,” Salah says absently. She’s moved on to the next set of pictures. “Don’t forget Remus will come by later.”

_ Right. _ The potion test is today, when the moon is out. It’ll be their one chance to make sure the potion is foolproof before they send it off to the Order, though Salah has pressed upon them to keep the recipe to themselves. They’ll be making another batch to dispense to werewolves who are not keen on working for Dumbledore, or anyone for that matter—what’s anyone ever done to help them anyway?

Draco joins him by the stairs on the way to the garden. Despite his stupid grin, Harry still manages smug confidence when he says, “Just a quick shower, eh?”

“Shut up,” Draco mutters, but his cheeks are bright red. They’d had a bit of a wrestle in Draco’s bed, and if fortune favours them, Godric won’t notice anything amiss, other than perhaps their freshly showered, still tousled hair.  _ Easy. _

To their great fortune, Godric is too busy with the plants to scrutinise anything else, with a patient Nelly at his side. Godric has Peternel in his arms, points at each herb and turns every leaf. Occasionally, Nelly takes a clipping and puts it in the basket she carries. Her earrings and bracelet gleam in the sunlight.

“And here we have Monkshood,” Godric tells Peternel as the boys approach, “more widely known as Wolf’s Bane.” Peternel looks from Godric to the plant, eyes wide. “Oh, it sounds very threatening, I know, but it’s a useful plant. Harmless to you.”

“We’re starting young,” Draco remarks. Nelly giggles.

“Master Godric likes educated Elves,” she says. Her accent is markedly Scottish, which still throws Harry for a loop. “Nelly is to learn her letters soon.”

“It’s never too soon,” Godric says. “We’re only doing names today. Herbology isn’t really my area, but I’ve been around.”

“What  _ is _ your area, exactly?” Harry asks. Godric has lived for so long, he could be anything. It’s clear Salah is the one who has mastered Herbology and Potions, and she certainly can duel. She is not an expert at Mind Magic, but she can at the very least fend off Godric, and Harry still vividly remembers the green fire.

“Many things,” Godric responds. He sets Peternel down, and the toddling Elf immediately decides to run into the field of poppies. It’s adorable. 

“Be more specific?” asks Draco.

It’s Nelly who gives the first answer, squinting at Godric as if he were a particularly infuriating puzzle. “Battle magician. Master transfigurer.” Then straining, “Minor Elemental control.”

“Ooh,” Godric coos. “You’re good. Most Elves give up after Battle Magic.” He motions for them to come along. Draco is the one to pick up Peternel; anyone else, and the infant would run across the fields and disappear.

They walk down through the woods to the door. Harry hasn’t seen it since its first introduction, but it feels less prickly now. He has his hand outstretched before he has the mind to think it through, and his palm rests against the warm stone. He is home.

Godric’s voice comes to him in layers. “I am the Keeper of this stone. This will pass on to whomever the Door wishes to be its Keeper, usually of the same bloodline.” Harry feels a chill up his spine, but breathes easy; the stone hasn’t chosen him. It’s waiting, calculating. He is still home.

“I’m not certain when I knew,” he hears Godric say. “As a child, my home was everything. I would often play by the Door, and here is where my magic has always been at its strongest.” Something strange is happening to his voice, and when Harry turns, Godric’s hair has been pulled from it’s messy bun, sways with a breeze that isn’t there. “I feel less trapped here.”

Somehow his shape becomes grander, more mysterious and eerie. Godric could be anything between the stars and the earth. He says, “The wind is mine, and so is the sky, the lightning, the storm.” Then with a sigh, he is back to himself, almost contained. “That is the magic of a Keeper.”

Peternel squeals, reaches out to Godric. With a smile, Godric takes the baby from Draco and taps his little nose. “Like recognises like. Will you be a good guardian for Gryphon’s Grove?”

Next to Harry, Nelly’s eyes have gone wide. “We haven’t had—oh, Goddess watch over us. A guardian at last!”

“It’s about time,” Godric murmurs. He gives Peternel to his mother, who is still too amazed to say much else. Then, Godric continues. “Battle magic comes to me less naturally, though I was always meant for it. I—at first, I did not take well to it. The circumstance were...brutal.” Harry winces, which earns him a knowing glance. “Any war, no matter whom it involves, requires a Battle Magician to watch over it. Many think it is so that we may fight, and many have sought me for their own armies so that their triumph were ascertained.” Godric shakes his head. “While I  _ am _ a Battle Master, as Battle Magician I aim for minimal loss of life, and as little injury as possible. I cannot win a war, but I can end it. I know the ins and out of magic in battle, and I will use it as I see fit. I see to it that no abuses take place.” His lips quirk up. “Not that my first teachers understood this. They wanted a puppet.”

“So you’re a tactician,” says Draco.

“Of sorts.” Godric thinks about it. “You should see me more as an overseer—how magic is used, who uses it...that’s what I do. Usually, I’m the one doing the most magic, which includes healing. Salah is the tactician.”

That makes sense. She is so bloody-minded and sharp, it’d have to be her.  _ It’s probably also what got her to be the Headmistress for Hogwarts, _ Harry thinks belatedly. Draco and Hermione have exchanged a rapid-fire amount of letters on Hogwarts’ early history, and in summary it’s a mess of wars and shifting kingdoms. You’d need a certain flair for politics and the sheer finesse of cunning to pull a school to utmost greatness.

Godric continues, “Aside from the mastery in Transfiguration, I also am a Master of Defensive magic. The former ties in with my being a Door Keeper, and the latter comes with the Battle Magic. In any battle, you need to know how to defend yourself and others. Defense is a subset category of Battle Magic, one specialised in, well, defense. When a storm’s around you, your priority is safety.”

“What about Mind Magic?” asks Harry. 

“Another subset of Defensive Magic.” Godric grins at Harry’s baffled face. “Most people have trouble believing that, yes. But to only defend your body is to leave your mind open. So you protect both, especially once the battle is done.” Then he claps in his hands, which startles everyone out of their mesmerised stupor.

Harry takes his hand off the stone. It’s a shock to the system, but he recuperates quickly enough that only Godric seems to take note, with a small, rare, melancholy smile.

“Apparition class,” says Godric. “Nelly, please send Bronach our way. They need to practice minor mendings in case of splinchings.”

As it occurs, Bronach gets no chance at all to heal any splinching; neither Harry not Draco move a single centimeter further than their assigned spots. For a  _ brief _ moment Harry has a distinct feeling that he phases out of reality, squeezed between oddly shaped walls, but when he opens his eyes, Draco is still across from him.

For that matter, a little whoop from Bronach has Harry opening his eyes again some minutes later; Draco has gone a bit ghostly, but flickers back into this time and place mere seconds later—not that Draco looks anywhere near happy about this feat.

“That was too strange,” he comments to Godric. “Not at all like I was threaded through the tiny eye of a needle. Much more as if I was being washed out of very strange pipes.”

A shrug. “It eases with time and practice.”

“What’s it feel like for you, then?”

“Like swimming underwater,” is the answer. “Like floating, sometimes.”

With a frown, Draco glances at Harry, who mouths ‘no?’ as they follow Godric and Bronach back to the house. As far as Harry knows, no one has ever described it like that, which might possibly, potentially mean that they’re all going about it very awkwardly and probably incorrectly.  _ What a surprise. _

Salah’s response is not even a smidgen less mystical, “It’s like stepping into a pleasant warmth—like sunlight after rain. Like mist against your skin, or swimming.”

“No squeezing?” says Harry.

She looks at him oddly. “Not at all. Something must be very wrong if you feel that.”

Even the Elves give strange answers. Dobby says, “Like clouds pass by!” and Winky tells them, “Very soft.” Bronach is by far the weirdest of the lot, “Like sprinkles. Like glitter!” before they run off to find, Harry presumes, glitter.

It’s still on his mind hours later, when Remus arrives for the potions test. It surprises him, again, how good Remus looks, how young and lively, how happy. Even his scars seem less dire, more faded, properly  _ healed. _ His clothes a crisp and casual, well-fitted and proper for a man his age. His eyes glow a faint amber in certain light, all of which Harry approves more than he can put into words.

“Speaking with Amat is honestly refreshing,” Remus confides with Harry as they head down to the cauldron. Draco is ahead of them, chatting with Salah. “I’ve even managed to transform on command, though that’s still painful.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Salah pivots towards them. “Progress! Amat also reported pain during her transformations, but if you look here,” she gestures to the cauldron, lightly bubbling as it is, “we have a solution.”

From here, Harry can see that the potion has turned to clear water, some silver lining its edges. Remus stops dead in his tracks, head inclined sideways, eyes curious. He possibly takes a good sniff, and his irises flash again.

“Does it smell good to you?” Salah asks. Harry watches on with some anxiety; they’d worked  _ hard _ on this, and all he wants is for Remus to have something of quality, something that won’t hurt him.

“No metals,” Remus says, surprised. “Doesn’t have any faint smell of rot and blood, either. Snape managed to get rid of that, at least, but the strong bitter taste remained.”

“That would be the Wolfsbane,” Draco notes. He even jots it down in a little notebook. “The rot and other metals are from the cauldrons used. Sev is smart enough to use an appropriate cauldron, but Wolfsbane has a natural bitterness to it. Surprisingly easy to solve with honey.”

To his credit, Remus merely blinks at them as if they speak of miracles rather than simple potion-brewing facts. Harry is proud of his varied and numerous notes on this potion as well as each individual ingredient. He even has a few questions for Snape, when he gets the chance, and if he doesn’t, well, he can pester the man for a long, long time. He’s good at pestering.

But without further ado, Salah offers Remus a little vial. The clear colour with silver outlines remains, and still Remus downs it in one big gulp, as if the man expects it to be poison. Harry is almost insulted.

“Oh, that’s good, actually,” says Remus after a bit. “I can taste the honey. It’s like a fresh sip of water after a long day in the sun.”

Harry’s face nearly splits in two. He hugs Remus tightly, and it turns out Remus has gotten really, infuriatingly strong since the last time they’d hugged, because Harry is fairly certain one or several of his ribs crack.

“All right, then,” says Salah. “You can go with Godric and present this to the Order. I’ll be happy to receive Snape’s coldly enraged letter shortly. Tell him I am full of anticipation and that further discussion will have to take place in my office at Hogwarts.”

“Office?” Draco parrots. “Since when do you have an office?”

“Since I’ll be teaching History.”


	16. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few mysteries unearth themselves at Hogwarts.

Over the Highlands, a carriage soars and lands at an old, abandoned ruin of a castle. Under the numerous charms and enchantments hides a school for witchcraft and wizardry, commonly known as Hogwarts.

They arrive early enough that the mist has only just dissipated. Harry stifles a yawn, teeth clacking together as the carriage lands with a soft jerk, barely audible. The shift from Northern England to the Highlands of Scotland had been swift but marked, and already he misses the fresh coolness under the bright sun, the light air and floating magic of Gryposcire.

Hogwarts is heavy and it is creaking. There is a weariness here that besets the ancient stones in a way that Gryposcire had not dealt with. Still, the grey stones greet them gently, and even Draco stops to look up in wonder.

“Hello,” says Harry as he breathes in the air. Winky and Dobby hurry along to make sure the luggage is going to the right places.

“It’s never felt like this,” Draco murmurs. “So old. So profound.”

“Welcome to Hugiweard,” Godric says. “School for magical craft and knowledge.”

It’s as if the entire castle lightens. As they walk into its walls, Harry feels the stones under his fingers, senses their expansion, the breaths.  _ Hugiweard _ . A stillness settles between them, one that is serene and loving; it recognises him as her own.

Hand in hand with Draco, Harry follows after his parents up the stairs. They’re rather well-behaved today, swinging over when needed, their movements smooth and calculated, up to the fifth floor.

Everything is new, like this. Salah and Godric seem to command the entire castle with ease; even the portraits stand to attention, watch them pass by with less idle curiosity and more respect. Possibly, Harry sees a familiar figure run across each field, in and out of rooms, skirts billowing behind, lost to the wind.  _ Amat. _

In a section Harry hadn’t even been aware of, they find a grand door. The profile of a lion-headed serpent is the handle; it splits in two as Godric pulls the doors open. Inside is a lavish sitting room with Winky and their luggage, and a giant window that looks out unto the grounds; it takes up the entire wall and reminds Harry of Griffon’s Door. As if they’d never left.

A small caught steers their attention to the hearth. A landscape painting hangs there—empty save for one woman at the lake, Hogwarts in the distance behind her. It’s not Amat.

“[Y dónde estaban?](-)”

Salah grimaces. “Oh, I have to update your language protocols.”

Her portrait glares back. “Do you not trust me to have learnt this new bastard English? Now, where have you been?”

“Home.” Salah sighs. “Gryposcire. Now go get the others.”

Harry blinks at the now empty portrait. “You had long hair?” No wonder he had thought it to have been Amat running along. They look uncannily similar save for the eyes, as if Salah had managed a perfect copy of herself.

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” says Draco, “Salah would never cut such luscious hair.”

“It was freeing, actually,” Salah comments idly. She pokes at the painting’s frame. “Godric, come look. There’s something odd about this…”

They poke and prod at it for a while. Draco loses interest and wanders away, and Harry decides he may as well familiarise himself with these new chambers. It’s far less loud and proud than the Gryffindor Common Room, with a brighter palette than the Slytherin dungeons. Much of the style of Gryposcire remains, which sits well with him.

The master bedroom is large and currently only contains Winky as she busies herself with putting away the things. A canopy bed sits under a window, with two dressers to its left, a little bench at its foot, and a night table to its right.

“Pick your room, Master Harry,” Winky chirps at him as she puts away Godric’s clothes. “The nursery is just across here, but this wing contains many chambers.”

It’s been an entire summer, and Harry still can’t wrap his head around having his own quarters. The Dursleys had barely deigned to give him a proper room, and Hogwarts had only granted him the shared dormitory. Winky’s right, too; this wing has many chambers, not all of which are bedrooms, but enough that they could house three generations with room to spare. Harry chooses something on the way between the sitting room and the master bedchamber, and a gleeful Dobby brings his things on over. It’s the room with a large window, almost like he’s outside.

Instead of being across from him, Draco is actually right next door. “Fancy that,” he says. “Did you notice the windows have been charmed larger on the inside? You don’t have anything like this in a castle this old.”

“Huh,” says Harry. “Neat.”

Even his room feels too big, and his bed could hold four of him before he’s in danger of rolling off. Granted, Salah insists he is too thin.

Hedwig likes it too. She gets her own perch, happier here than up in the owlery. Harry doesn’t unpack quite yet; he’s undecided on whether he’ll remain here for the school year, or if he’ll join the boys up in Gryffindor Tower.

Once all their things have been put in the right places, Draco and Harry return to the sitting room. Whatever had been wrong with the painting must’ve been fixed; Salah’s no longer fussing, and it now contains four very young-looking magicians in rather nice garments.

“Oh, hello,” says Hrodwunn Hrabnazklaw. “It’s nice indeed to meet you at last.”

Her skin is not at all as pale as the paintings in the Entrance Hall had made her out to be. In fact, if Harry would hazard a guess, she is a touch darker than Salah. Only Helga is as flaxen-haired as legend would have it, though her eyes are a very deep brown that suit her nicely. They’re both very pretty; it makes Harry’s heart skip a beat, and he’s almost afraid to see young Godric, who is, as always, impossible to look at due to the sheer level of pretty.

He’s  _ unbearded _ , which is strange. It gives him a really young look, almost boyish in a way, if not for the steel in his eyes.

“Huh,” says Godric at himself. “Must be after Idris was born.”

“Yes, well,” says his portrait counterpart, “I was looking real unkempt there. Even Godiva was scared, and nothing scares her.”

They share a commiserating look as the women roll their eyes. Well, Rowena and both Salahs roll their eyes; Helga watches on serenely. She looks like the kind of woman who would be deemed too soft, but Harry catches the glint of a dagger at her belt, and the staff she holds looks thick enough to break a skull. Something in her stature—and she is nearly of height with Godric, the grotesque Tall One—makes Harry wholly capable of believing that she is absolutely, if silently, terrifying.

And not even Godric can drink her under the table.

“Seeing you again makes me want to weep with joy,” Salah says flatly, though the quirk of her lips tells him she means it, “so will you now tell me who in the seven hells locked you out of all the other portraits?”

Helga speaks. “We’re not sure who, but we suspect it may have been a collective effort. It was too swift, to precise. We were all locked at once. Our only refuge was here, and once we left our individual portraits, others took them over. Your usurper was particularly vile.”

“Ah,” says Godric. “So it was an attempt at reshaping history. You can’t have the originals about to refute your vision.”

“Before the 15th century, then,” Salah mutters. Then, looking at them directly, “I’m sorry we’ve only come now. It’s all a big mess.”

Her portrait self arches a brow. “We know. Have you seen the curriculum? If I could, I would weep. The standards are so  _ low _ —not even languages other than English, terrible Latin, and Ancient Runes. No general knowledge of anatomy or bandages, let alone healing magic—”

“Take a deep breath, please,” says portrait Godric.

Something in the consistency across several centuries makes Harry smile. At the very least, Salah can be trusted in her priorities.

“You’re free to go kick the vile man out of our portrait,” Salah tells her painted self. “Take Helga with you. She looks too calm over there.”

At the mention of her name, Helga’s face splits into a delighted grin and Harry is absolutely  _ vindicated _ in his cautious fear of her. She high-fives Godric on her way out of the frame—an odd sight, but they must’ve seen countless students do the gesture; it only makes sense they would adopt it.

Hrodwunn sighs, exasperated. “You know what you inflict upon the man.”

“I wish I could see it,” Draco laments. 

“I’m sure they’ll be vicious.” Hrodwunn nods, pleased. “Does this mean we can travel outside of Hugiweard? I’d like to speak with Amat again. And I have so missed dear Godiva and Idris.”

“Oh, I’d like to see Gryposcire once more,” says portrait Godric. “I hope the children haven’t been too bored, the little terrors.”

He disappears first, striding out. Hrodwunn, at least, gives them a little bow before she goes, her pace sedate. Harry hasn’t a clue what to make of all that, the uncanny chasm between what the Founders were like and what the stories tell of them.

“Well,” says Salah. “That was that. Are we all settled in? Bags unpacked?”

“Uh,” says Harry, “I don’t know if I should fully unpack? I mean, it’s nice to have a room of my own, but I’d also—I’m just so used to the dormitory?”

“That’s fair,” says Godric. “Draco?”

“I—” Draco goes completely still for a good moment, eyes downcast. Then, “I’m staying here. I don’t—I can’t trust the others in my House; half of them will have followed their parents, and the other half will be forced into a dangerous game. The same one I’ve been playing for years. I—I’m not a coward. I just...it’s very well-known whose side I’m on.”

Godric frowns. “There’s nothing cowardly about safety. In fact, I insist you stay here.”

Whatever insecurities Draco’s had about his decision, they disappear entirely at Godric’s words. Harry squeezes his hand, and vows quietly to spend his weekends here. It’s a strange new thought—not only that he has a private space within Hogwarts, but that he has parents here, too, and he can come and go as he pleases.

“I suppose you’ll be informing the Headmaster?” Draco asks.

“Oh, he has been adequately informed,” says Salah. “The ultimate decision is his, but your Heads of House also have a say, and both agreed to this. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to learn Harry won’t stay here all the time.”

“How’d he take my adoption?” Harry is genuinely curious. Dumbledore hadn’t even wanted him to go anywhere for the summer but for Privet Drive, and now Harry had come back from Gryposcire and all, adopted into a different family and just a bit more out of the Headmaster’s reach. It must sting.

“Well, I wasn’t there to witness that but I’m sure one of the portraits could tell you.”   
  


***

It’s not until lunchtime that they go downstairs. By that time, Harry has unpacked, and the quilt Winky and Dobby had gifted him lays spread upon his new bed. He doesn’t know where to put the dagger Godric and Salah had given him, but it’s too important to leave about, so that he straps against his lower leg and tries not to think too hard on it for the time being.

The Great Hall is much the same as he remembers it, though strange in its emptiness. Even holidays hadn’t been like this. But most of the staff is here, including a new, bald man with a rather sizeable stomach and such an enormous moustache, Harry may actually have mistaken him for a terrible-looking walrus. Well, no, he’d like to stay on friendly terms with walruses.

The man is quick and exceedingly enthusiastic in introducing himself. “Horace Slughorn, Potions Master. I’ll be teaching the first-years from now on!” He shakes Harry’s hand profusely. “Oh, what a pleasure indeed to meet you, Mister Potter. Why, you do have your mother’s eyes! I’ve heard you have her good sense, too!”

Before Harry can well and properly process the man’s words, Professor Slughorn has moved on to Salah, who has a blank look on her face that rather disquiets Harry. “Oh, Salah Slytherin herself, what an honour! I could not miss this chance to come to Hogwarts to meet you myself! You are a Master—er, a true inspiration to all us of House Slytherin. Remarkable, honestly astounding to be able to meet you.”

Harry, rather preoccupied with how strained the buttons on the man’s waistcoat are, missed Salah’s exact expression at the moment, but he  _ hears _ it in her voice when she says, “How kind of you.” It’s like she speaks to an insect, or possibly a worm.

Not that Slughorn notices; he merely rambles on. “Oh, and married to Godric Gryffindor, what a twist indeed! An honour, sir,” and he shakes Godric’s hand firmly, exuberant. “I must say, you are much closer to what legend spoke of! To think I would live to see the day the Founders returned! Why, I couldn’t have dreamed of it!”

“I’m sure,” says Godric. He does his best to appear bemused, but he must be at least mildly impressed that this man has so quickly deduced what the  _ Prophet _ had refused to publish.

Except, “I heard what happened at Sirius Black’s trial,” Slughorn says conspiratorially. “Truly dreadful! To attack you so boldly! I am ashamed to learn what Miss Selwyn has become; after all, she was of my House.”

“Your...house?” Harry says weekly. Slughorn’s buttons will pop at any moment, he’s sure of it. Any second now.

“Why, yes, my boy, Slytherin! I was Head of the House back in the day. Why, I even thought good old Severus! He wouldn’t be what he is now without me!”

A glance at Professor Snape reveals the face of a man who dearly wishes Slughorn would drop dead, or perhaps suddenly find the edge of a cliff to fall from, or, more preferably, spontaneously combust. On Snape’s left side, Professor McGonagall looks on with badly disguised distaste. Granted, Slughorn isn’t looking at either, though surely any normal human will feel the quiet burn of Snape’s eyes on their back, like a target marker for a bullet.

“Now, now, Horace,” Dumbledore says as he makes his presence known. “We musn’t keep our guests waiting on their food for too long. Certainly not one expecting a child.”

“Oh, yes of course!” For a moment Harry thinks, no,  _ fears _ , that Slughorn will touch Salah’s belly, which will preempt his violent and messy murder, but the man is wise enough  _ not _ to trigger such an event as apocalyptic in its nature.

Instead, Slughorn clears the way, gesturing for them to sit. Much to Harry’s relief, Salah chooses the seat next to Snape— _ Severus, _ though Harry supposes that as its a school setting, he may as well revert back to  _ Professor Snape. _

“Young Master Malfoy,” Slughorn says candidly as Draco passes. “How nice to see you here as well.”

Despite his impressively neutral face, Draco’s left eyebrow twitches just a tiny bit. That heralds danger, but Draco’s voice is perfectly pleasant when he says, “Professor; it’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

After a brief handshake, they both go to their seats. Slughorn is visibly disappointed to be between Professors Dumbledore and Sinistra, on the opposite side to where Salah has taken them.

The staff table offers a new and rather bizarre perspective on the Great Hall. No wonder McGonagall had been able to see all their mischief from there; no matter what table one sat at, the staff could see most everything. Now, how they so quickly got from their table to the ones below—that is still a veritable mystery. 

One for another day. 

“I wonder how Albus convinced him out of retirement,” Professor McGonagall says quietly. “The man’s a coward if I’ve ever seen one. He went into hiding, for Christ’s sake; Albus had to go hunt him down!”

Salah snorts. “I suspect he wasn’t so much convinced as much as...Slughorn threw himself at the opportunity to meet not only Harry Potter, the Chosen One, no, but also the two remaining Founders of Hogwarts. Think of the stories, the status, that such acquaintance would grant. He wouldn’t miss  _ this. _ ”

At McGonagall’s side, Snape coughs. Anyone else would have likely choked, and he does glare at her, albeit without heat. For her part, Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows pull impossibly high upwards.

“Well,” she says, “I’ve never heard such an accurate description of the man. You’ve known him for less than five minutes!”

“My dear, this is politics,” Salah says, “and I am all about politics all the time. If I am to play a man, I need to know his character, his weaknesses.”

“It would explain why he largely ignored me,” says Draco. He doesn’t even sound offended; when Harry looks his way, Draco has his narrowed eyes fixed on Slughorn. “Father always said he was a good wizard, but we already know the sort father spends his time with.”

Startled, Harry says, “You don’t think—”

“No, don’t be ridiculous.” Draco sends him an annoyed glance. “Slughorn’s an opportunist, like most Purebloods. Making nice with Death Eaters would completely ruin his chances at raising his reputation. He latches unto fame like a leech, without a care for who he tramples on the way there. ”

“And he’s a terrible educator,” Snape mutters.

“Oh?” say both Godric and Salah.

Snape’s dark eyes glance at them briefly, but intently. 

After a moment, Godric says, “I see.” The monotone of his voice raises Harry’s hackles to new, impossible levels.

“He has...some right to the title of Potions Master,” Snape explains. “But he’s not fond of experimentation, disagreement, or dissent. In fact, he deducts grade points for that sort of thing.” He quiets Professor McGonagall with an even stare when she splutters. “I had to fight him to get my apprenticeship. It’s probably for the best he has the lower classes rather than the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T students.”

And that is all Severus has to say on that before he stands up and departs. Harry, whilst somewhat relieved he won’t have to deal with Slughorn in a classroom setting, is still somewhat apprehensive of the look his parents share.

Slughorn is wholly unprepared.

 

***

Evening comes quicker than expected. The last months of summer are upon them, and it’s a beginning so  _ Hogwarts- _ like, it makes everything around Harry settle.

The last day of their vacation is on Sunday. It’s a weird place to exist—at Hogwarts, but not during term, a time with no obligations, classes, nor teachers breathing down their necks. In fact, aside from Slughorn being a veritable fanboy, most professors seem relaxed and open for small talk. Draco even calls Harry to the window where they can spy McGonagall and Snape out for a stroll.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Harry asks.

“How they’ll terrorise us this term, of course.” Draco grins. “Or do you wager they’re having a chat about the pleasant weather?”

Harry kicks him for good measure, and they end in a bit of a tug-o-war with each other until they fall to the ground, breathless and laughing. Harry, on his back, smirks and flips their position in one fluid movement. With Draco giggling under him, he leans in for a quick peck on the lips.

“Now, now, boys,” says Godric, startling them out of their skins, “behave.”

He’s nose-deep in a book, so he can’t really have seen much, if any, of their shenanigans, but his chastisement still leaves them with burning cheeks. They help each other up, but can’t honestly do much about the embarrassment, so they sit down on the nearest sofa, with space enough for another person between them.

Through a case of sheer luck, or perhaps tremendous timing, Salah comes in from her walk. Winky appears as if on cue, always there to attend to her Mistress’ needs. It’s still truly amazing how much Winky adores Salah, but Harry supposes the feeling must be mutual. Salah honestly does care.

Godric shuts his book. “How did your talk with Binns go?”

The boys sit up in attention. So far, Salah has not deigned to explain how she would go about gaining her position as professor for History of Magic, and one couldn’t well be hired for a position someone else still has.

“Good,” she says simply. “At least for me.” And then she takes the cup of tea Winky offers, and curls up against Godric.

If not for the knock at the door, Harry would absolutely lose  _ his mind _ . Sure, they’ll probably tell later, but he wants to know  _ now.  _ He wants to jump up and down and demand more information, an explanation, anything at all that may resemble something his mind can work with, but those antics remind him viscerally of Dudley and the years upon years of terror, so he refrains.

They have a guest, anyway. A guest with the name of Severus Snape.

“Severus!” says Godric. “How nice to see you.”

“Yes,” Severus drawls, “I was as surprised to find this place here.”

“It’s a bit wily, we know,” Salah remarks. “Come, sit. Would you like tea?”

He declines, but does sit. “I won’t waste your time. I brought something both Mister Potter and Mister Malfoy could use for the coming year.” He takes out a book from within his robes, something old but clearly well-cared for, and lays it on the table. Not at all absolutely bitter, “In light of your...success with the Wolfsbane Potion.”

Harry and Draco glance at each other before reaching for the book. Upon closer inspection, it’s familiar; the cover has changed through the years, though minutely, but the letters remain the same:  _ Advanced Potion-Making _ by  _ Libatius Borage. _

“You’ll find I’ve made some...annotations,” says Severus.

With that knowledge, both boys are eager to look inside. The annotations are all written in Snape’s scrawling hand, in the margins. Harry, who had looked at his potions book as soon as it had arrived and then quickly tossed it out for being idiotically simple as compared to the books in Griffon’s Door’s library, finds Snape’s suggestions absolutely fascinating.

“Oh, this really is much better,” he says as he quickly thumbs through the pages. “If we hadn’t been so busy over the summer, I’d’ve sat down and done this, too. Actually, would you mind if I wrote down some notes of my own and showed them to you?”

He can’t exactly hate Snape forever for his betrayal. Even his mother had forgiven the man, and Harry can see genius when it sits before him, and this is  _ it _ . Only a quarter of what’s written here would have occurred to him on a  _ good _ day.

Severus blinks at him, then looks aggrieved. “If you must.”

“Oh, come on, Sev,” Draco says, “you know this is brilliant. Harry almost had me burn my potions book when he tried to read it.”

“I did not!” says Harry. “I merely suggested it would be more useful in a hearthfire.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Salah says. “That’s no way to treat books.”

With a bland look on his face, Harry Accios his own edition (tenth, in fact) of Borage’s book. He hands Salah both editions for good measure, just so she can see the stark difference in craftsmanship with her own two eyes.

Unlike him, Salah goes through the book at a sedate, curious pace, taking in the clean, un-annotated version first. She hits a snag quickly though; he can tell by the troubled frown. Then her face contorts into such disgust, even Godric looks at her in alarm. Now he reads over her shoulder.

“This is the newest edition?” Godric points at Harry’s book.

“Yes,” says Harry. He can’t take his eyes off of Salah; she has a mean look about her, lips curled.

Godric’s subsequent silence terrifies him, though. Even Severus has a look about him like he knows where all the exits are and is ready to use them at a moment’s notice. Now, there is a useful, resourceful man—Slytherin through and through.

“They have not changed,” Salah murmurs, “a single thing.” Then, “No, I’m wrong, they took out the one page they had on cauldron types, and qualities. Nothing on their effects on the potion.”

“That’s my fault,” Severus says. When they all look at him, he explains, “I argued with Slughorn that as sixth-years, we should move past pewter and brass for our potions, if we wanted to make anything of quality. He said we shouldn’t be concerned with quality just yet, since none of us were Potions Masters. I said I would be,” he gives a weary sigh. “I shouldn’t have.”

“And he has connections with the author’s family,” Salah surmises.

Severus nods. “He also threw out several of my essays because he did not agree with them, or the premise was merely experimental...or because he didn’t understand what I proposed. I do not have fond memories of the man.”

“Yet Dumbledore wanted him here,” says Salah. “He must be after something.”

“He is,” Severus agrees. “Not that he has cared to tell. To me, he claims that lessening my workload will allow me to be a more effective spy. While that is true to a certain extent, the younger dunderheads are left with a subpar educator.”

“I don’t like this,” Draco mutters. Harry squeezes his knee.

“What’s he tell everyone else?” he asks.

“That Slughorn is safer here,” Severus says darkly. “I do agree with him that it’s better to have Slughorn here than left out there to be captured.”

“Yes, because that’s exactly what we need,” Godric says. “Good old Tom with one and a half Potions Masters.”

As much as Harry hates the very notion of anyone having to sit through Slughorn’s classes, the dread in the pit of his stomach is worse at the mere thought of Voldemort having any more capable help. He’ll just suffer Slughorn for the year.

“There’s a game within a game here,” says Salah. “Dumbledore went and found a man deep in hiding. He wants Slughorn for something, and I intend to find out what it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go for this installment!
> 
> A single point of attention, in case I've not mentioned it before: 'Alicia' Ravenclaw is now Pallas Ravenclaw, for those who read this before I changed that.


	17. The Slytherin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer draws to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter for a while. Once I complete the next installment, I will start posting again.  
> Enjoy!

By the time the portraits return, Harry has nearly forgotten them entirely. Godric and Rowena are first, but they sit by the far end of the lake, where they can’t be heard. Harry doesn’t even notice their return until Helga and Salah come barreling in, all giggles and incomprehensible language.

It’s not even Spanish. At this point, Harry can understand Spanish  _ in his sleep. _ In fact, he has dreamt in Spanish a few times now, though for the life of him he can’t recall what was said.

It’s a half hour away from breakfast, and Harry is not nearly awake enough to deal with any of this. Draco’s just out of the bath, but not clear-eyed nor entirely coherent just yet. Salah still clings to Godric, who apparently hates this morning specifically for unknown reasons, so it’s on Winky to address the situation.

“Mistresses,” she says with her squeaky voice, “English, please.”

“Oh, take my gracious apologies,” says Helga. Young Godric has sidled up beside her, and it really does strike Harry that Helga is the only one close to eye-level with him.

“Just tell us what you’ve learnt,” Godric says, voice like gravel. He looks a bit rough around the edges, some wispy strands of hair sticking out. Salah is wrapped around him as tightly and securely as one can with a twenty-six week baby in one’s belly.

Young Salah stands up straighter, halts her giggling. It only makes her about an inch taller, the shortest of the group. “Salazar Slytherin is actually John Rodrick of Gaunt. Yes, that Gaunt,” she says when her counterpart perks up. “He had an affair with, and fathered a child with Anna Cecilia Zaahir, of Eder’s line.”

“Possibly murdered her,” Helga mutters, “he wasn’t entirely clear on that bit. His children went by Gaunt, though.”

Young Salah rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure he remembers the event correctly, given he’s had to insist on the lie. The point is,” she clears her throat, “once she died, he took to claiming he was of Casa Serpentina. A lot of our descendants fought this, but it only led to a...particular fringe group of scholars to picking his lies up and writing them down as fact.”

“Don’t tell me,” says Salah, “they then pulled the neat trick of passing him off as me. And to our great misfortune, it worked.”

“And it worked.”

“It’s a good thing I dye my hair,” says Salah. “At this point all of it would go white.”

“Don’t worry,” Helga says cheerfully, “I broke his legs. Not sure where I left him, though. I think he’s still alive?” She looks to the Salah at her side, who shrugs. That is  _ not  _ encouraging.

“But he’s dealt with,” Rowena says carefully. “You may take back your rightful place?”

“Not in that painting,” both Salahs say at the same time. The portrait version shivers, says, “It was painted specifically for him. You’ll have to physically remove it from the wall. And then get rid of the other three fraudulent portraits of us founders, too.”

Godric, pensively, “Don’t we have another version of this painting?”

“Ah,” says Salah, “we do.”

“That ought to be a shock,” says Draco, now bright-eyed and looking a tad too happy there with the discussion of bodily harm and potential death.

“I wager Hogwarts needs a shock to the system,” Salah says. She yawns. “Well, thank you for your good work. You’ve gotten slow, though.”

Helga has to hold back her friend. “Please don’t start. We haven’t had this much fun for a good while. Do you have any idea how long we’ve wanted to tackle those paintings? I’m going to give mine a good strong swing, I am.”

“Not in front of students,” says Rowena.

“Or the faculty,” says Godric. He pivots Salah away from the painting; she’s starting to look gleeful  _ and _ awake. “Off we go to break our fast. Go stab the fake ones for us. Be good!”

“Those are inherently opposing statements, dad,” says Harry.

He can’t quite see the portrait’s reaction, but the Godric before him grins and says, “I know.” It’s terrifying.

They pull together and go to the Great Hall—via rather obedient stairs, once more. It’s another miracle of existence that Harry just has to accept as part of his life; Hogwarts stairs can and will allow one to climb them, will take one to the right floor, and will not decide half-way to have their own ideas about where to go. He could say magic, but the same magic has been erratic for five entire years of his short life.

Only half the staff is at the table when they arrive, but as one of the late-comers is Slughorn, Harry is happy enough to see everyone else, including the rare occasion where Dumbledore is early.

Perhaps the trick is food. Dumbledore certainly has never arrived as last to the opening feast, though granted it’s McGonagall who leads in the firsties. It robs Dumbledore of his usual dramatics, though he recovers that neatly with his speeches. It’ll be curious to see how he spins it this year, what with a full out war all but declared, and several students from across houses having Death Eaters for parents.

But that is a concern for another time. Like, say, Sunday evening.

In the meantime, Godric leads Salah by the shoulders, looking over her head for a good place to sit. As McGonagall has taken seat between Dumbledore and Severus, he places Salah next to the Potions Master, and himself next to her, so that leaves Harry with the choice to sit next to his Godric, with Draco at the end, next to a newly-arrived Hagrid.

Hagrid beams at Salah. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” Salah pats her belly. “It’s possibly a filly.”

“Did you just refer to our child in  _ horse terms, _ ” Godric asks flatly. Hagrid’s laughter booms across the hall.

“I will do as I  _ please _ , Godric of Griffon’s Door.”

It seems to age Godric a couple of centuries, until he shrugs and accepts that this is now his fate, and this is indeed the woman he’d married nearly a millennia ago. Harry has adopted the absolute most insane parents, which seems on-brand for his entire life so far.  _ I’m dating Malfoy to boot. _

Someone should have grabbed him by the shoulders by now. Someone should have looked him in the eye and told him to cease and desist. That that person had almost been Sirius Orion Black is possibly a frightening thought, but here they are, with the facts laid bare. Harry’s life is, to quote Salah, a circus act. Filly included.

Others trickle in, but Harry is more concerned with finding food that isn’t the traditional English breakfast to really notice much. His taste in food had morphed gigantically in just two months, and if he sees one more toast with butter he is going to lose his mind and flip the entire table.

This is likely why the next conversations entirely blindsides him.

“I suppose I have you to thank for Professor Binns’ retirement,” Dumbledore says neutrally. He doesn’t look at anyone in particular, but seems to direct his words at Salah.

Harry can’t believe what he’s just heard, not even when all of sound has left the room. Binns?  _ Retire? _ He glances at Draco, who shares the same bewildered look, and then to everyone to his left, who are all too stunned for words. Godric, the eternally exceptional, glares at his tea as if it has personally offended him in some grave manner.

Salah nonchalantly continues to prepare her sandwich. “He didn’t believe me about there having been two World Wars within the span of fifty years.” Then she bites into one half, her expression going from impassive to absolutely delighted.

“This sort of thing ought go through the Headmaster first,” says Dumbledore, utterly pleasant.

“I didn’t fire him. I’m not headmistress nor do I wish to be. He simply left.” She looks at him, big eyes and complete innocence. It’s actually believable. “Will you take a look at my application now?”

Another stunned silence from the staff. Harry opts for a similar kind of sandwich as Salah—lots of greens, a good tomato, and cheese sprinkled with cumin seeds. No toast, no butter, brown bread. He’s a healthy boy.

“ _ You. _ ”Professor Burbage breaks the silence. “Teach history?”

“Well, I've lived a lot of it, so why not?”

“And you have a Doctorate in Postcolonial History,” Godric reminds her.

“And I have a Doctorate in Postcolonial History,” Salah nods. At her other side, Severus’ eyebrows arch upwards; he’s probably the only one besides Harry and Professor Vector who know what a Doctorate even is, given the bewildered look on several faces.

“It’s akin to a Mastery,” Harry says to the rest. “Or higher?”

“Just a tiny bit higher,” Godric confirms. “Though it is difficult to compare the two. I wouldn’t say a Master’s Degree and a Mastery are equal, but they’re close. So a Doctorate will be above that.”

“So it’s a Muggle thing,” says Professor Burbage. “How can you teach History of Magic when you have a Muggle Mastery?”

She receives a high degree of Bitch-face from Salah, Godric, and Severus for her efforts, and McGonagall’s lips have gone a bit thin. Five, now six, years with her as his Head of House has taught Harry to appreciate the notable presence of McGonagall’s lips; their disappearance is something of nightmares.

“My word, professor,” Draco says breezily. “Did you not hear a single thing Godric just said? A...Doctorate, is it,” he looks at Harry for a confirming nod, “a Doctorate is higher than a Mastery. Salah and Godric have been around for a great deal of history, too. They could teach us a great deal about magical history that we’ve forgotten. And even though I suppose Salah’s Doctorate only covers non-magical history, well, this is a great opportunity to broaden our horizons is it not? After all, we live in a world with both magical and non-magical people. If we’re only learning about one part and not the other, how will we ever have a complete picture of our history? How could we begin to understand the now? I, for one, want to be properly educated.”

“Hear, hear,” says Harry, proudly smiling.

Professor Burbage splutters, but she can’t bring in a single word that won’t make her look bad in some way. She crosses her arms and sits back like a petulant child, which is rather unbecoming of a look on her.

“Well-said, Mister Malfoy,” says Professor Dumbledore. “Marchioness, consider yourself hired.”

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

_ Was this a test? _ Harry narrows his eyes at Dumbledore. The Headmaster’s blue eyes still twinkle brightly, as they are wont to do, but something about this conversation, the timing, the presence of all teachers except for Trelawney...it all seems a tad contrived, or at least carefully presented.

Salah chews on nonchalantly, but she catches Harry’s look and gives a smug little smile. Of course she had anticipated this. Whatever game Dumbledore had intended to play, it’s likely she had waylaid it, if not outright kicked it off the tracks.  _ At the very least she passed the test _ , but it’s not at all like Salah to sit back and let her merits be tested.

It’s all going to give him a headache.

 

***

The infirmary is entirely empty when Salah and Godric lead them there. This, too, is an eerie experience for Harry; mostly, he has occupied one of the beds, usually with the company of some unfortunate others. Now, though, all the beds are empty, sheets neat and crisp, with the yellow light of the sun making the space look even larger.

Madam Pomfrey comes out of her office to intercept them. Even she looks relaxed, and she’s not in her usual frock; instead, she has donned a long dress with a wide skirt, and a white lace capelet thrown over her shoulders.

“Good morning, Matron,” says Godric.

“Good morn.” She smiles. “I hope everything is all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” says Salah. “I’ll just sit over here, if you don’t mind.” She picks a bed nearby, takes her shoes off, and sits. Madam Pomfrey watches her with some amusement, like a mother watching a child’s endearing antics—never mind that, despite the optics, Salah is much older.

Harry hasn’t a clue what they’re doing here, and by Draco’s blank look, neither does he. Madam Pomfrey isn’t surprised to see them, though; she just smiles with genuine pleasure, nods at Salah, and says, “I went to the Headmaster with a proposal for first aid classes.”

Arms crossed, Godric leans in. “And?”

“He approved, finally,” says the Madam. “Minerva actually thought it was a wonderful idea, as did Filius. It does make the students much more capable of taking care of themselves and each other before they need to come to me.”

“Excellent,” says Salah. “That’s one more thing off our list.”

The sheer level of plotting is  _ actually _ going to give Harry a headache. It’s brilliant, yes, and it’s been highly effective thus far, but he can’t keep up with it all, or even anticipate what new turn things will take. It would be helpful to avoid whiplash. His neck would be grateful, actually.

“So,” Draco says slowly, “you’re going to be teaching us?”

“Yes, dear boy,” says Madam Pomfrey. “It’s something I’ve been wanting for years. I even went back to school to learn how to be a proper educator.” She sighs. “I’ve seen far too many children with injuries that could either have been avoided, or that could have easily been helped if only they knew how.  _ Without _ magic.”

Draco, a dramatic shit, chooses his moment, “Wizards? Do something without magic? Unimaginable. Perish the thought.”

“I don’t know,” says Harry, “I’d rather it live.”

“Heathen! Philistine!”

Thankfully ignoring them, Madam Pomfrey casts Godric a curious look. “Why did you ask me for this? You have a Mastery of Medicine, do you not?”

“I do have a medical license,” Godric says with a shrug. “But I went into obstetrics which is,” he glances at Salah, “rather fortunate now. It’s good to delegate tasks to capable staff. Besides, I’m trying to get back into neurology…” He makes a face. “It’s not going to be this year, I fear. But I will try.”

“Again?” says Salah.

“You don’t get to say  _ anything _ until you fully learn Russian.”

“Godric, I gave up Russian in the 1790s! Do you have  _ any _ idea how much has changed since? I’m not going to make myself suffer like that.” She raises a finger. “You just don’t get to go back to neurology until you pick up where you left off with your attempt at beekeeping.”

“I tried that for four days! And then concluded I wasn’t that interested. I even cleared out everything!”

Harry sighs, shakes his head. “You two are insane,” he tells his parents.

“No, mister Potter,” says Madam Pomfrey. “They’ve merely had too much time on their hands.”

***

The last Sunday of the summer vacation, Harry spends with Draco by the Great Lake. as these are the Scottish Highlands, enough clouds provide coverage that Draco doesn’t turn pink after a mere two seconds, but they still both put on sunscreen just in case.

The lake is an impossible dark blue. From here, you can’t see the movement in its depths, but Harry is more than familiar with the lake’s inhabitants. That is the exact reason that, as soon as the urge to dip his toes in the water arises, he kills it with a passion and a vengeance.

Instead he watches Draco eat chocolate truffles, as offered by Nelly when she’d quickly popped in. It’s not really the weather for that sort of treat, Draco had claimed, but if Harry doesn’t watch out, he won’t have any for himself.

“What do you think this year’ll be like?” Harry asks idly. His fingers wrap around the grass, pull lightly. Daisies still pop out here and there, in clear defiance of the season.

“Complicated.” Draco turns his head a little, inclines it. His hair has grown even longer, the waves reaching the end of his ears. “There’s a war now. I think Dumbledore may like to keep it outside, but rest assured, it will be fought within.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs. This summer has been, thus far, the most normal he’s ever had, probably the happiest. Hogwarts, however, has never been a peaceful place to exist, and that realisation is jarring. It’s his home. It’s been the only home he’s had before Griffon’S Door. He chuckles. “I’ve always been fighting a war here. That’s not really healthy, is it?”

Draco laughs. “I think we’ve established exactly how unhealthy it is.”

They fall silent, smiling. Tonight, when all the students arrive and the feast begins, another bubble of peace will be burst. Harry is all right with that, insofar as he has anticipated it. He can’t say he’ll like it, but at the very least he’ll have friends around him, he’ll have Draco, and he’ll have his new parents.

“Do you miss your friends?” Harry asks. Draco’s in the middle of eating a truffle so he doesn’t respond just yet. It does give him time to think.

“Yes, and no,” he finally says. “They’ve made their choice, and I’ve made mine. Some will support me in private without the luxury of being able to say it out loud. Others will oppose me at every turn, and I won’t call them my friends.”

“Are you worried, then?”

“Not really.” Draco shrugs. “I have my own quarters. If the Da—if Old Tom sends one of them to poison me, I’ll be safe.” He rolls his eyes when Harry sits up straight, alert and alarmed. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist just yet, Potter. Your concern is duly noted and thoroughly endearing.”

Harry blurts out, “Draco, I  _ love _ you—”

And the entire world spins, stops.

It’s not that he doesn’t mean it, it’s that he  _ does _ . It’s been difficult  _ not _ to have the feeling grow, especially now that he’s spent the entire summer with Draco, as infuriating as he is, as capable of growth and change. So now Harry gets to watch Draco’s cheeks pinken, he head turned away slightly. It doesn’t entirely hide the smile on his lips.

He doesn’t necessarily need to hear the words back. This really is just the absolute worst time to have these kinds of profound experiences, the realisation that his feelings go much deeper and with such a vibrant colour, they overwhelm him. Only the rippling sounds of the lake keep him grounded, and so his eyes wander there, to the glittering waters.

Despite everything, their silence isn’t awkward. It’s a silence that waits, one that gives space and embraces uncertainty. Before the summer, Harry had wanted exactly this, had jittered terribly in the unknowing. None of that matters now.

“Here,” says Draco. He shoves the box at Harry. “These are for you. Perfectly shaped.”

Seven of them. Draco licks his lips and smiles. His cheeks are still pink, and his eyes are over-bright, nearly silver. His skin, once alabaster, is now a faint hint of sun-touched gold. Even his hair seems to glow as Draco pulls it back into an easy knot. There he is, dressed in the clothes he bought in non-magical London, his gaze fixed on Harry as if that’s all that matters.

Harry grins.


End file.
